Overseas

THE S E ARE UNC OR R EC TED A DVA NC E PR OOFS BOUN D FOR YOUR R EV IEWING C ONV ENIENC E In quoting from this book for reviews or any other purpose, please refer to the final printed book, as the author may make changes on these proofs before the book goes to press.

Overseas

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Overseas b e at r i z w i l l i a m s

G . P. P u t n a m ’ s S o n s

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N e w Yo r k

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G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

Publishers Since 1838 Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Copyright © 2011 by Beatriz Williams All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data TK Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Book design by Meighan Cavanaugh This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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To m y h u s b a n d a n d c h i l d r e n , without whom the rest means nothing.

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Amiens , Marc h 1916

T

he rain beat steadily through the night and into the meager dawn. My raincoat had wilted long ago, and still the bitter spray leapt up against my face and hands from the nearby cobblestones, drumming out the minutes as the congregation chanted matins in the cathedral across the square. In some distant corner of my mind, I must have recognized the discomfort. The rest of me hardly noticed. I just huddled there on a wooden bench, under the scanty shelter of a green-striped café awning, and studied the cathedral’s west front with trancelike devotion. Inside that soaring space, Captain the Honorable Julian Laurence Spencer Ashford stood with his fellow British Army officers, reciting the psalms and the responses, bowing his head to his Lord. Soon he would rise to his feet and walk through a sandbag-framed door into the dismal wet square between us. What would I say to him? A surge of rainfall struck the awning above me and rolled along the cobbles in a wave, flinging itself against the cathedral towers; in that instant, the first low clangs of the bell tolled out across the square, signaling the end of services. I stood up, my heart striking madly against my chest. A few figures began to emerge from the doorway, shrouded by the downpour and the muted light of the early morning hour, and for a second or two I hesitated.

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I imagined our meeting, and my muscles went slack under a fresh burst of self-doubt. But then a new and more horrible idea flashed across my brain. What if I missed him? I plunged in panic from under the awning and hurried across the square. I hadn’t thought of that. I hadn’t thought I could possibly let his familiar figure slip by me, and yet as the bodies appeared, one by one, I realized the British officers all looked alike. All of them dressed in identical khaki trench coats, all wore the same peaked caps, all sported puttees and dark leather shoes. They were like images from a history book, from a war movie. They didn’t look anything like the man I knew. But Julian was there. He had to be. On this day, in this town, in this cathedral, he had attended morning services with another officer and walked back to his billet near the train station. It was a historical fact. I anchored myself securely to that thought: it gave me courage. I scanned the shifting bodies in front of me, bore down determinedly on a man in khaki and stopped him. “Excuse me,” I rasped out, and cleared my throat. “Excuse me, can you tell me if Captain Julian Ashford attended services this morning?” He looked astonished. Was it the question itself, or the modern American accent in which I asked it? “Please,” I said. “It’s really important. I have a message for him, an urgent message.” “Yes, he was there,” the man said at last. He turned around to look at the doorway. “He was sitting up front; he should be out directly.” He looked back at me and opened his mouth as though he wanted to say something more, but hurried away instead. I stood there, letting the chill rain roll down my body, clenching my fists rhythmically against my coat, waiting. A few French officers came out, and then a cluster of nurses; townspeople, all women; a lone British officer, not Julian. And then I saw him.

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Julian. He looked exactly as I knew him, and yet so foreign. His luminous face, his broad capable shoulders, the little smile curling the corner of his full mouth, the glance upward into the weeping clouds, the hand reaching up to settle his cap more snugly on his forehead: I knew all those details intimately. I had last seen them only a week ago. But it was all covered up in his uniform, martial and colorless and nothing like the modern clothes in which I knew him. My brain seemed to split apart, unable to process the two images together. I realized he was walking away, together with two other officers. “Julian!” I called, but the word came out in a weak croak; I could hardly hear it myself. “Captain Ashford!” I cried, more loudly. “Captain Ashford!” He turned at that, searching through the crowd for my voice, brow creased in confusion. His companions turned too, inspecting the faces around them, but Julian found me first, picked me out effortlessly from the shifting throng. He cocked his head and watched me approach, not moving an inch, sizing me up, his skin gleaming with rain in the faint hazy glow of a nearby arc lamp. He didn’t know me at all. I’d told myself to expect that, but the sight of his puzzled face still shocked me. It didn’t show the smallest bit of recognition. I was a stranger to him. “Captain Ashford,” I said, trying to ignore the grief, trying to ignore his beauty and his magnetism and the shattering love I felt for him. “Do you have a moment?” He opened his mouth to say something in reply, some demand for more information, but at the last instant his expression shifted from suspicion to concern. “Madam,” he said, “are you quite all right?” “Yes, I’m fine,” I said, but even as the words left my lips, I realized the blood was draining from my face, that my ears were starting to ring and my knees to buckle under me. Don’t faint, I thought urgently, don’t faint, but already I was pitching forward. Directly into his astonished arms.

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1.

N e w Yo rk Ci t y, Decem b er 2007

On the morning I first met Julian Ashford, I woke up panting, roused by the excruciating intensity of a dream I could not fully remember. At the time, with no reason to believe in anything but the concrete and linear, I put it down to anxiety. I often had nightmares before major business meetings, assuming I was lucky enough to catch any sleep at all. They weren’t particularly imaginative. I’d be running late in the morning and find myself stuck in slow motion, as if my arms and legs were made of wire; or else struggling to perform the lead role in a play I’d never rehearsed. Naked, of course. But this dream was different. It had been submerged not in anxiety, but in a form of panic, so painful it was almost pleasurable. I’d been talking with a person—no, a man. Someone I cared about deeply; someone who cared about me. I’d been trying to explain something important to him, something vital, but he couldn’t understand me. I squeezed my eyes shut, struggling for details, the quick steady thrust of my heartbeat banging violently into my eardrum. Who was he? Not my father, not a friend or colleague. No one I could identify. The sense of him was already fading, leaving me abandoned, shipwrecked. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling for a moment, and then I threw off the duvet. I showered and dressed and fled to work, but the foreboding persisted, like a vise around my brain, even as I burst free from

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the subway stop on Broadway and Wall Street and swept up the towering sunlit phallus of the Sterling Bates headquarters, where Alicia Boxer awaited me on the twenty-fifth floor. An early riser, Alicia; it was her only virtue. “I mean, what the fuck, Kate?” she demanded, by way of acknowledging my arrival. “Where the fuck did these revenue numbers come from? Nineteen percent in year five?” She sat at the far end of the bank’s best conference room, surrounded by wainscoting and bamboo shades and peaceful low-voltage incandescent light: an elegant contrast to the Modern American Cubicle theme on the Capital Markets floor downstairs, where I was currently on rotation. The presentation books for today’s meeting were stacked in front of her on the mahogany table; her venti holiday-red Starbucks cup perched dangerously close to them, scenting the room with vanilla latte. I eased into the empty chair at her right and summoned my still-reeling wits. “I think you and Charlie discussed the revenue figures Friday night? Before you left for the weekend?” I lifted the end of each sentence to make it sound like a question. You don’t do confrontational with Alicia, not if you don’t want to land a pension fund in International Falls, Minnesota, for your next assignment. She lifted her eyes and glared at me anyway. She had a round babylike face, so completely at odds with her personality it might have been a private joke between her and God. Pretty, in its way, particularly the arresting blue of her heavy-lidded eyes, but her current haircut—short and wispy, aiming presumably for a pixie effect—made that plump florid face look like Tinkerbell undergoing a severe allergic reaction. Not that my opinion counted for anything. According to Charlie, she was sleeping with Paul Banner, head of Capital Markets and my current boss. “Hmm. Did you forget your makeup today, Kate?” she asked. On any other morning, this kind of comment—so typically Alicia, tossing her petty kindling atop the impotent inner rage of her subordinates—

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would have infuriated me. Today, I could hardly be bothered to shrug. “Your e-mail said to hurry in. And Charlie and I were up late last night, finishing the presentation.” She tried again. “Do you have, like, some powder in your purse? I could loan you some mascara. This is kind of an important pitch, you know.” She tapped the stack of presentations. “Southfield Associates is a twentybillion-dollar fund. A lead steer.” “I’ve got lip gloss.” “Good. You’re not going to find yourself in a room with Julian Laurence again anytime soon. You want to give the right impression.” “Yeah, well, back to the revenue numbers. I had some questions about them myself last night, but Charlie said . . .” “Charlie is full of shit. You should know that. Year five revenue growth shouldn’t be less than twenty-three, twenty-four. ChemoDerma is a growth company, Kate. Do you know how much skin serum they sold last year?” I knew to the last dollar, but the question was obviously rhetorical. “A lot,” I said, “but the patent expires . . .” “Fuck the patent. I want you to redo the spreadsheet with a revenue growth number of twenty-five percent in years four and five. Print out a dozen copies and replace the page in all the books.” She rose from her chair. “But it’s not just that page. A couple of charts refer to these projections . . .” “Replace them all.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “Um, isn’t Southfield supposed to be here by eleven? And Banner has us pre-meeting at ten forty-five.” She ran her tongue along the ridge of her upper lip. “Come on, Kate. Where’s that can-do spirit we hired you for? Just find an intern.” She picked up her latte and left the room.

“Thanks for showing up,” I growled at Charlie, as he staggered through the conference room door two hours later. I was leaning over my

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laptop, flipping through the last few slides of the presentation and hoping I hadn’t missed any references to the new revenue projections. “Sorry, dude. My BlackBerry fell under the bed. Did you get them all done?” He nodded at the plasma screen on the wall, which was hooked up to my computer. “Barely.” I clicked back to the title slide and straightened. My back and neck were stiff with tension; I lifted one hand to rub the hardened muscle at the top of my spine. “You rock.” He set two cups on the table. “Peace offering. Peppermint mocha, extra hot, right?” I looked at the cup. “Thanks,” I said, and picked it up, bathing my nose in delicate mint-chocolate steam. The tension eased fractionally. “So where’s Banner?” “He’s not here yet?” “Of course not.” The door opened and the intern wobbled in under a stack of presentations. I jumped up and snatched one, flipping to the pages I’d changed. All there. “Thanks, buddy,” I said. “No problem. Just mention me to Banner.” “Yep, sure.” I thumped the books on the table, dismissing him, but he didn’t leave immediately. He hesitated, hovering between the table and the door; I glanced back just in time to see him turn away with a shaming shake of his head. I called after him. “Wait. I’m so sorry. What was your name again?” “Doyle. David Doyle.” “I’ll rave, I promise,” I told him, flashing a smile. “Yo, that was awesome,” Charlie said, laughing, as David Doyle bolted out the door. “You slayed him.” “Hardly. So where did Banner go?” I repeated. “It’s ten minutes to eleven.” “Oh, probably doing the meet-and-greet with Alicia. No way Banner’s going to give up any face time with Julian fucking Laurence.” “Yeah, well, he should be more worried about the actual presentation.”

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Charlie crashed confidently into a chair and began to swivel. “Kate, nobody around here has even met Laurence. Never takes sales calls. Never reads Street research.” “Just the usual jerk, probably. You know these hedge-fund guys.” I got up and went to the monitor on the wall, adjusting the display. “Kate, Laurence is not just some hedgie. He’s the hedgie. Grew Southfield from zero to twenty in, like, seven years. The dude has mythic fucking alpha. The real deal.” I heard the rhythmic squeak of Charlie’s office chair, swiveling back and forth, and smiled into the TV monitor. He was a good-looking guy, Charlie. Not that I really noticed anymore, having seen him just about every day of my life for the past two and a half years, often for twenty-four hours straight, sometimes sloppy drunk, and once with horrifyingly explosive stomach flu (his, not mine). Good-looking in a bland way, with regular preppy features and straight thick brown hair, which he wore slicked back like some kind of Gordon Gekko mini-me. “So what does that make him?” I turned around just in time to catch Charlie checking out my pencil-skirted derrière. “Not just any old jerk, but the jerk?” “Come on, Kate.” He pulled a stress ball out of his pocket and began squeezing it with his left hand. “He’s a living legend. Timed the post-nineeleven bounce-back to fucking perfection, made some leveraged bets on financial stocks. Risky shit, but it paid off. They unloaded all of it right at the top. Right at the top, dude. Nerves of fucking steel. The guy’s a billionaire now.” Charlie shook his head. His eyes shone with awe. “Not even thirty-five, and he’s cleared the wall. The whole fucking ballpark.” “Impressive.” “Oh, come on. Look at you, all stressing out. Strap on a pair of balls, for once.” He switched the ball to his right hand and rolled it around his palm, grinning slyly. “You’re a smart girl.” “Thanks.” I clicked again to the first of the revised slides and frowned. Twenty-five percent. We were going to get slaughtered.

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“No, seriously. Plus you have a major advantage over the rest of us.” “What’s that?” “Your looks, Kate.” He tossed the ball up in the air and caught it with a deft flick of his hand. “You’re the first thing these guys notice when we walk into the room. You should work it.” “Charlie, for God’s sake.” I said it too sharply. I sensed Charlie’s body locking into place, fingers clenched around the ball. “Oh, dude”—his voice thinned with dawning apprehension—“you’re not gonna, like, report me or something?” “No, no. Jeez, Charlie. It’s okay. All fun and games.” His hand slackened; the ball went back in the air. “You seriously don’t think you’re good-looking, though?” he pressed, relieved, apparently, that he wasn’t about to be hauled up in front of a sexual harassment tribunal. One torturous day of our new analyst orientation three years ago had been devoted to gender sensitivity training, as if we hadn’t had enough of that in college already. Not that most of my colleagues cared much. Anyone who was going to hyperventilate about the crassness of the investment banking atmosphere did not, ipso facto, have the necessary cojones to kill your career. “Well, I’m okay, I guess,” I said cautiously, catching my reflection in the sterile blue glow of the computer screen. “Dude, give yourself some credit. You rock the whole sexy librarian thing.” He leaned back in his chair, propped his oily black shoes on the gleaming mahogany. “I mean, no offense.” “Sexy librarian?” He shrugged. “Some guys love that shit.” “You’re so full of it.” “Full of what?” He leaned forward, grinning. “Come on. Full of what, Kate?” The first thing you learn on Wall Street: just play along. “Full of crap, Charlie.” “Kate! Did you just swear ?”

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“Crap doesn’t count.” “Sure it does. It’s like shit for wusses.” “Deep, Charlie. Very Harvard of you.” “Kidding, Kate. We all love how you elevate the fucking tone around here.” “Any time.” “That prim Wyoming shit . . .” “Wisconsin.” I lifted the cup to my lips and drank deeply. “Whatever. Just remember what I said, when Laurence . . . Oh, fuck.” Charlie heaved his feet off the edge of the table, nearly toppling in his chair. “Here they are.” I jerked to attention, splashing scalding coffee against the back of my throat. My hand stole up to rip the elastic from the twist at the back of my head, which left only a skinny tortoiseshell headband to keep my hair in place. Not exactly the polished professional, but at least not—thanks, Charlie—librarian manqué. Had I remembered the lip gloss? I rolled my lips together. Slightly gooey. Check. Alicia entered first, mouth twitching irrepressibly, jacket unbuttoned to reveal an aggressive bronzed cleavage. Her voice cascaded with false regret. “Kate, there you are. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” The strangest feeling: vertigo, as if the entire broad carpeted floor had fallen away beneath my feet. “Leave?” I demanded, in undertone. “What do you mean, leave ?” “I’m so sorry. We had an extra ChemoDerma guy show up.” “What about Charlie?” “He stays. He’s just, you know, a little more professional.” She mouthed the last word with relish, hardly bothering to disguise her smile. I’d had many revenge fantasies about Alicia. My favorite had her going rogue and blowing up the bank in a spectacular career implosion, like Nick Leeson with an industrial-strength push-up bra. Except she didn’t work on the trading floor—no math genius, Alicia—and my joy in her demise would be obscured by the fact that most of my 401k was held in

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Sterling Bates stock. Oh, and I would also be out of a job. Still, her public disgrace had been enjoyable to contemplate in the comfort of my cubicle at three o’clock in the morning: a guilty pleasure for which I usually repented in the light of day. Not anymore. I stared at her, only dimly aware of the dark-suited figures streaming through the door, filling the room with affable chuckles. “Okay,” I said. I turned to Charlie. “It’s all here, ready to go. Watch out for the new revenue numbers.” “Dude,” he moaned softly. “Don’t worry. Alicia’s doing all the talking. I’ll be in my cube if you need me.” I picked up my laptop bag and walked to the door—past Banner, with his craggy overtanned face and emollient smile; past the ChemoDerma CEO, frowning quizzically; past two or three men who must have been from Southfield. The last one turned his face as I walked by, flashing me a lightning impression of startled eyes and bright extraordinary beauty, but I didn’t even pause. I could just hear Banner introducing us: And these are our hardworking analysts, Charlie Newcombe and Kate Wilson, who put the presentation together for you folks. Um, Katie? The door closed behind me, cutting him off.

I went directly to my cubicle, as I’d promised Charlie, and kept my

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phone poised next to me on the desk. I had nothing to do; my laptop was in the conference room two floors above me, delivering the presentation. I should have been grateful. I had never grown used to meetings like this one, always hovering on the brink of some disaster: six-inch-high spelling errors projecting on the screen, mislabeled graphics, pie charts whose numbers clearly didn’t total to 100 percent. Revenue projections pulled out of thin air, neat and pretty and so completely freaking bogus. Ideal target practice for sharp-witted hedgies. But this wasn’t much better, this unnerving idleness, this queasy suspi-

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cion that I was missing a deadline or failing in some critical responsibility. I reached out restlessly with one hand and traced the edge of the framed photo on my desktop. Nothing too revealing, just Michelle and Samantha, standing in front of Neuschwanstein at some point during our post-college Eurail trip. Samantha’s arm looped around Michelle’s shoulders, pulling her off-balance; Michelle’s fingers stuck up above Samantha’s head with the obligatory bunny ears. They were probably hungover. I was pretty sure we’d spent the previous evening at one of the Munich biergartens. Or three. A lifetime ago, it seemed; I narrowed my eyes and tried to recall the laughing Kate who had taken that photograph, compare her to the suit-swathed creature I inhabited now. Manhattan Kate, impermeable investment-banker Kate. Eventually I rose to use the bathroom; not because I needed it, but because it was something to do, however brief. I lingered as long as I could at the black marble sink. I washed my hands with scrupulous care, chased away each tiny droplet under the hurricane draft of the hand dryer, twisted my hair back into its elastic. My face gazed back at me from the mirror, heavy and troubled, unrecognizable. I picked up my silent BlackBerry from the counter and made my way back through the maze of identical heather-gray cubicles to my own, where I stopped short. A tall lean man stood there in perfect stillness, resting one hand on the back of my chair. His curling hair gleamed dark gold in the remorseless office lighting; his back, broad and immaculate, bent forward a degree or two toward my desktop. “I’m sorry,” I snapped. “Can I help you with something?” He straightened and turned to me. “Kate,” he whispered. I flinched in shock. The man was beautiful, unutterably beautiful. His face bore the implausible symmetry of a classical sculpture, almost exotic, with wide vivid eyes that absorbed me greedily. A yellow Sterling Bates visitor’s badge hung from the right lapel of his suit jacket, or I might have thought I was hallucinating.

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“That is to say, Miss Wilson,” he said, in polished cut-glass tones, a plummy voice straight from the Friday night marathon on the classic movie channel. Gielgud, maybe, or Barrymore. He held out his hand. “Julian Laurence.” “Oh,” I said, shaking it. “You’re British.” Of all the asinine things to say. He smiled. “Guilty as charged.” “Shouldn’t you be in the meeting?” “I’m sorry for disturbing you. I only wanted to convey my apologies, for having . . . for the way you were . . .” His voice trailed off, but his gaze, if possible, grew more intense: a strange vibrating stare, as if he were trying to scour the backs of my eyeballs. “Oh, that’s not necessary. Not your fault, I mean. I’m used to getting bumped. It’s part of the job description.” Was it my imagination, or had the restive murmur of the Capital Markets floor faded to silence? I could sense the heads popping up above the cubicle walls, like prairie dogs. My pulse twitched eagerly in my neck. “In any case,” he said, not taking his eyes from mine, “I’m sorry to have so nearly missed you.” “That boring in there, is it? I guess we should have slipped in a few pictures of celebrities, to keep you guys entertained.” I nearly jumped at the spikiness in my own voice. I’d meant it as a joke. He felt it, too: his eyes widened, and a tiny crease formed between them. “Have I offended you? I beg your pardon. I only wanted . . . you see, you took me quite by surprise . . .” He shook his head and gathered his thoughts. “I’m making a muddle of things, aren’t I? I do beg your pardon.” “There’s nothing to forgive.” I swallowed, because my mouth was apparently watering, for God’s sake. He parted his lips hesitantly. His right hand curled and flexed at his side, on the outermost edge of my peripheral vision. I wanted to speak, to amaze him with some immortal display of wit, but my brain had frozen into stupidity, not quite able to process that the legendary Julian Laurence stood in full luminescent flesh before me, stammering and begging my

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pardon, like the shy kid at school who finally works up the courage to confess to his long-standing crush. Not that such a thing had ever happened to me; not that I’d ever met this man in my life. “It’s just this,” he said, and a large hand appeared on his shoulder, startling us both. “There you are,” came a gruff voice, belonging presumably to the hand’s owner. I tore my eyes away from the noble architecture of Julian Laurence’s cheekbones to find a pale dark-featured man, a color-negative of Julian himself, watching me with cool impassivity, dragging his hand back down to cross his arms against his chest. Julian let out an exasperated breath and cast his eyes upward. “My head of trading, Geoff Warwick,” he said. “Geoff, it’s Kate Wilson.” He spoke with command, putting the slightest emphasis on my last name. I lifted my well-trained hand, but Geoff Warwick only nodded. “Miss Wilson,” he said. Julian turned back to face me. He looked inquisitive, or else possibly amused, one eyebrow arched, but when my eyes met his a smile lifted one side of his mouth. A conspiratorial smile, between the two of us: a kind of wink. “Hadn’t we better be getting back to the meeting?” asked Geoff. “Yes, of course,” Julian said, and his smile brightened to iridescence, dazzling the anodyne office air in a current of pure blithe energy. “Kate— Miss Wilson—a very great pleasure.” He took my hand again, more a clasp than a shake, and then turned to stride down the aisle with the fluid ease of a natural athlete, drawing the light along with him, Geoff Warwick trotting doglike at his heel. I stared helplessly after them, hardly noticing as the heads swiveled back in my direction and then, one by one, slipped back behind the cubicle walls. I could hear Charlie, of all people, observing in my brain: Dude, that was fucking weird. 1S R 1L

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don’t think I remained unconscious long. I became aware of voices, hands; someone was touching my cheek, my forehead; loosening my collar, removing my hat. I seemed to be lying on someone’s knee, with a single iron arm supporting my back and the cold rain still dripping miserably on my cheek. “Who the devil is she, Ashford?” someone demanded, jarringly close. And then Julian, in a voice so familiar it brought the sting of tears to my eyeballs: “We can sort that out later, Warwick. She’s clearly ill.” Warwick. Geoff Warwick. I hadn’t recognized the accent. “Her eyelids are moving.” “Yes, I see. Are you all right, madam? Can you hear me?” I nodded. “Yes,” I scratched out. “Sorry.” I dragged open my heavy eyelids, wanting badly to see his face: there it was, a little blurred, compressed with concern. “Warwick,” he said, glancing upward, “do you think you can disperse this crowd a bit? And see if there’s a doctor among them.” “Not likely,” said Geoff Warwick, but he moved away and began making commanding noises. I turned my head in his direction, and saw that at least a dozen people stood in a silent awed circle nearby. I struggled upward, but a renewed surge of dizziness and nausea closed my eyes.

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“Sorry,” I whispered again. Anxiety clipped his words. “Madam, can I help you? Are you in pain?” “No. Just tired. Long journey.” I tried to smile, but my mouth seemed incapable. “Can I help you to your lodgings? Assist you in some way? Warwick!” he said urgently. “Have you found a doctor?” “Someone’s off to fetch one,” Warwick said, returning. “How is she?” “Conscious. Speaking. She seems a bit confused.” “No! I’m all right, really.” I struggled to sit up again, with more success. “Ashford, she’s American!” exclaimed another voice, behind me. Julian’s other companion; I couldn’t see his face. “Yes, I realize that,” Julian said. He squinted at me thoughtfully. “How do you know her?” demanded Warwick. “I don’t know her.” “She knew your name.” “Before God, Warwick, I’ve never seen her in my life,” he insisted. “Madam, where do you stay? You can’t return without help.” “I’m not anywhere, yet,” I said “I just arrived in town.” A pause. “You must get her out of this rain,” said the other voice. “Yes, of course,” Julian said. “Is the Chat open yet, do you think?” “Not yet.” Warwick sounded almost gloating. The chip on his shoulder evidently wasn’t a modern development. Another pause. “Madam, are you able to walk?” “I . . . yes, of course.” I slid off his knee and tested my legs: a bit wobbly, but still capable. Julian’s arm remained across my back, supporting me. “Warwick, you and Hamilton wait here for the doctor,” Julian said, over his shoulder. “Tell him to find us in rue des Augustins.” Arthur Hamilton. Florence’s brother. I strained to look at him, but his face was hidden under the low dripping peak of his officer’s cap. “Christ, Ashford, you’re not taking her to your billet!” “I beg your pardon, madam,” Julian said quietly, and then turned to

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Warwick, speaking next to his ear in a stern whisper he evidently thought me too far gone to overhear. “Where the bloody hell else can I take her? It’s pouring rain; the cafes aren’t open yet. She’s no streetwalker, that’s clear.” Warwick snorted significantly. “For God’s sake, look at her. You’ve never seen a prostitute”—Julian spoke the word in such an undertone I could only guess it—“with a face like that.” “You’re mad, Ashford. She might be a damned spy, for all we know.” “Rot. Where’s your humanity, man?” He turned back to me. “You’re quite sure you can walk?” “Yes,” I said, taking a step. Strength was beginning to return, now that the immediate shock of meeting him had receded, but the nausea still lingered. “I’ll help you. Come along; it’s not far. The landlady has a parlor, quite private and suitable until you’re well enough to continue.” “I . . .” I nearly refused him, but then I remembered this was why I was here: to win his sympathy, to gain his trust. “I’m so sorry to trouble you,” I said instead, and the words sounded alien, unlike me. “Here we are, then,” he said, guiding me forward with his arm. “Be decent for once, Warwick,” he added, “and see about that doctor. Hamilton, you’ll help him, won’t you?” He assisted me across the square and down a side street, not saying anything except for the odd short warning about loose cobbles and sidewalk edges. I stumbled along as if in a dream; or maybe it was a dream. It certainly seemed like one, walking down this street, in this bleak unfamiliar war-ridden French town, with the rain crackling icily down my coat and Julian’s right arm encircling me from behind. “Just around this corner,” he said, so close I could smell the faint musk of his shaving soap. I had to dig my fingernails into my hand to keep myself from responding, from leaning into him, from slipping my own arm around his waist.

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A door appeared in front of me; Julian opened it and led me into a cramped hallway. “Madame !” he called out. “Madame, s’il vous plaît ! Come along with me,” he added, drawing me through a doorway to the left. A private parlor, he’d called it. Dignified words for such a room; private it might be, but the bare floorboards and sparse furniture and meager coal fire felt inhospitable to the point of grimness. A single electric lamp cast a dim circle of light into the gloom; outside, the storm rattled angrily against a pair of darkly curtained windows. “Let me have your coat; it’s quite soaked through,” Julian said, leading me to a squat provincial sofa with decades of morning visits worn into its burgundy upholstery. I unbuttoned obediently and felt his hands on my arms, behind me, drawing the sleeves away. He folded it once, lengthwise, and laid it on the back of the sofa. “Now, do sit down. You must. I’ll just find the landlady and have her bring a tray.” He disappeared through the doorway. I dropped into the sagging cushion and tried to gather my wits. A week had passed since I’d arrived in this century, a week of confusion and alienation and hard physical slogging, making my way from the middle of England to war-torn France. I’d had to learn everything from pounds, shillings, and pence to the proper technique for securing a hat with a single long pin; I’d borne all of it under the bruising weight of an impossibly profound grief. And my brain was at last getting used to it all—to the foreignness, of course, but also the unexpected fact that it was so . . . ordinary. Strange, without all the modern machines and clothes and conveniences, and yet familiar. Bread tasted like bread. Rain fell as wetly as ever. Julian was still Julian. But young. Good grief. The physical differences were subtle enough: the hair a shade lighter, the skin more dewy; the face perhaps rounder, less chiseled. The distinction lay more in his expressions, his manner. He had that unmistakable air of command about him, of course; he’d probably had it since infancy, and the experience of captaining a British infantry

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company had only intensified the instinct. But here, now, it combined with eagerness, artlessness, less ease and practice. He’d only just celebrated his twenty-first birthday, I remembered. I was an older woman to him. A dangerous line of thought, of course. With unnerving abruptness his golden body rose above mine in the summer twilight, so perfectly authentic that my head bowed before the vision and a heavy weight seemed to press the breath from my chest. I twisted brutally the ring on my finger, forcing my brain to detach, to distract itself with practicalities. No modern expressions, I reminded myself. Tuck in your feet. Posture. I was going to throw up. I cast about for a container of some kind, and spied a chipped blueand-white vase in the window sill. I staggered over and grasped it just in time. “My God!” Julian’s voice exploded from the doorway in alarm. I sagged against the window, my throat burning: bile and humiliation.

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I disliked Paul Banner for a number of reasons, but primarily because he was always hitting on me. He wasn’t blatant about it. That I could have shut down pretty easily. No, his style was smarmier, sneakier, so I couldn’t quite pinpoint just where he’d crossed the line. He’d show up at my desk, for example, and take me out to lunch under the pretext of giving me career advice, but it would still have the nauseating flavor of a date with your lecherous rich uncle. I’d spend the whole time waiting miserably for his hand to show up on my knee, while he probably spent the whole time working up the nerve to do it. “Katie,” he said now, materializing at the edge of my cubicle and taking a long look down the front of my shirt, “let’s debrief.” It was just after two o’clock and I was about to crash. I’d had about four hours of sleep the entire weekend, and Charlie had just treated me to an enormous greasy Reuben sandwich—my favorite—from the deli around the corner, to settle accounts over the Alicia incident this morning. It sat in my stomach now in a great warm planetary mass, drawing my eyelids downward with the force of its gravitational pull. I could hardly think straight. “Debrief ?” I repeated. “Well, you know, that was kind of an odd situation, back there in the meeting.” I feigned innocence. “How so? By the way, how did everything go?” “Good. Great. I think they liked me,” he said modestly. “Let’s grab some coffee. You look like you could use it.” I couldn’t argue there. I sighed and reached for my bag. “Charlie,” I

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called over, thinking someone should know where I was going, just in case, “we’re just grabbing a quick coffee downstairs.” He looked up from his computer screen and took everything in. One eyebrow elevated. “Sure, dude,” he said. “Bring me back the usual.” One of the benefits of working at Sterling Bates, in my book, was the coffee shop next door. According to the office coffee bores—you know, the ones who drone on about Arabica versus Kenyan beans or whatever— Starbucks was crap, but it suited me just fine. It was a place to go when you were sick of the cubicle; at Sterling Bates we used it constantly as our de facto casual meeting space. Any financial journalist wanting an easy scoop, or for that matter any unemployed taxi driver looking for a stock tip, just had to sit in that Starbucks with a newspaper and a latte and keep his ears open. “So what did you think?” Banner began, taking a drink of cappuccino. In Italy, two summers and a lifetime ago, I’d learned that nobody drank cappuccino after eleven in the morning; the knowledge gave me a pleasant surge of moral confidence. I settled against the slippery wooden back of my chair and crossed my legs. “I don’t know. I wasn’t there. What did they make of the revenue projections?” “They had a few questions.” He drummed his fingers against the table and peered outside at the narrow swarming sidewalks. The Sterling Bates headquarters were located only one block down from the New York Stock Exchange, which meant we were among the relatively few people working on Wall Street who actually worked on Wall Street. My folks got a kick out of that. I sipped at the mocha and waited for him to continue. “Katie,” he said finally, “what are your plans for next year? Business school?” “I think so. I just sent off the last application on Friday.” “Where did you go to undergrad, again?” I hesitated. “University of Wisconsin.”

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“That’s right. I remember. We don’t usually recruit from there, do we?” “No,” I said. “Not usually.” “Well, I’m glad we made the exception. You’ve been a remarkably productive asset for us. We’d hate to lose you.” I laughed politely. “Even after this morning?” “Especially after this morning. Don’t think I didn’t see how Alicia sandbagged you in there. I’ve been around here long enough to know a thing or two.” “Hmm.” Probably not the right moment to make my j’accuse just yet. His eyes latched onto mine, trying to connect; I raised my coffee cup again as a kind of buffer. “Now, that’s what I like about you,” he said. “You don’t waste your killer instinct on office politics. Unlike most of the jackasses around here. Myself included,” he added, with a laugh. “Anyway, you got out of there with poise, Katie. Real poise. Laurence was impressed.” The coffee caught at the back of my throat. “Very impressed. He was asking me a lot of questions about you at lunch.” “Really.” Cough, sputter. “What kind of questions?” “Just questions. Here’s the deal, Katie. I’d like you to take the lead on this thing. Rework the numbers, get something back to them in the next day or two.” “What ?” I wheezed out, through the coffee droplets. I set down my cup and wiped at my watering eyes, not quite sure I’d heard him properly. He leaned forward across the table, until I could see the stress lines cutting across his forehead. “We need Southfield in on this deal, Katie,” he insisted, pressing his right index finger into the wood veneer. “If Southfield’s in, others will follow. Fucking lemmings. You know that.” “No, I get it.” I edged back my chair as discreetly as possible. “I’m really flattered. It’s just . . . are you sure you want me taking the lead? I’m not exactly senior. I wasn’t even in the meeting.” “If you’re worried about Alicia, I can promise you she won’t be a problem.”

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“No, no,” I said swiftly. “I can handle that.” He paused for a beat or two, inspecting my expression, and then his face eased into a smug smile. “Relax, Katie. Laurence likes you, and it would be a good high-profile project for you. Pretty straightforward, too. And I’d be one hundred percent behind you.” “Wow,” I said. I was beginning to feel like one of those poor schmucks in the Godfather movies, being made an offer he couldn’t refuse. I ran my finger delicately around the rim of the plastic coffee lid and tried to think of something more to say. “Good, then.” Banner sat back. “Consider yourself the point man. I’ll give Laurence a shout to let him know it’s coming.” He stood abruptly and picked up his cup with a wink. “Now, try to go home early and get some beauty sleep.”

“So, dude,” Charlie said, around one o’clock the next morning,

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“what’s the fucking deal here? Banner’s not pimping you, is he?” I swiveled my chair to face him. “What ? Oh please. Not that Banner wouldn’t try if he could,” I admitted, “but I’m not exactly hedgie bait.” “Whatever. I smell a Banner plot.” Charlie propped his feet up on his desk and balanced a red editing pen on his knee. He looked tired and pasty under the fluorescent lights, like he’d been hung upside down in a meat locker for the day. “And Alicia’s on the fucking warpath, by the way. You’d better watch your ass.” I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. “That’s all I need.” We were sitting in adjoining cubes, coming up with a more sensible revenue model for ChemoDerma. That was the cover story, anyway; at the moment my laptop displayed a long list of Google search results for Julian Laurence Southfield. I’d already read most of them, doing my due diligence on Southfield the last few days, and there wasn’t much I didn’t already know. How Julian Laurence had started the fund in 2001, bringing together a couple of

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genius traders and his own impeccable talent for timing markets. Returns had piled up, new investors had piled on, and now Southfield Associates was one of the largest hedge funds in the world. But for such a dynamic company, it had remarkably little buzz. Here and there a quote appeared, attributed to Julian, usually some dull reflection on market conditions, nothing with any sort of personality. And that was the strange part. Here was this freakishly handsome man, the young CEO of an explosive hedge fund, an absolute prodigy in every respect: where were the interviews, the Vanity Fair cover, the snarky New York magazine hit job? Even Page Six returned only one mention from last year, when he had attended some charity function at MoMA: Julian Laurence, the elusive founder of mega hedge fund Southfield Associates, made a rare appearance, setting socialites’ hearts briefly aflutter until his early departure. That was it. Not even a photo of that remarkable face. I ran my cursor over his name. Why keep such a low profile? He ought to be out enjoying himself, dating supermodels and buying up beachfront property in the Hamptons. He had the world at his feet. He couldn’t just be staying in at night. “So are we supposed to check any of this shit with ChemoDerma?” Charlie was asking. “Because it’s pretty weird, messing with the IPO pitch without . . . shit.” His feet swung back down to the floor. I looked down his line of sight and saw Alicia marching toward us in a sleek black pantsuit. There were about a dozen other analysts still in the bullpen, working on various projects, but I knew there wasn’t a chance she was hunting down one of them. It didn’t take her long to find me. “Kate, I’d like to . . .” She stopped and ran her eyes up and down my figure. “Is that what you’re wearing these days?” My hand went to the strand of faux pearls at my throat, lying atop the wide neck of my charcoal sweater-dress. “I don’t have any meetings today.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Whatever, Kate. I need to talk to you. Is there a conference room free?”

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“There should be,” I said. “We’re not too busy right now.” She followed me into an empty room and shut the door, bracelets clanging against the handle. The floral scent of her perfume closed densely around us. “Just what the living fuck do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. “Wow,” I said. “I don’t know what you mean.” “Stealing my fucking deal, that’s what! Cutting me out. Setting Banner against me. And after all I did to make you look good . . .” My cheeks grow warm. “Excuse me, but what planet are you living on? I had nothing to do with any of that. Banner called me in for a meeting and said he was putting me on the revisions. It wasn’t my idea. I didn’t even have a choice.” “Do you think I’m a fucking idiot, Kate?” Her voice, building in shrillness, crested on the verge of a shriek. I raised one fatal eyebrow. She turned red; her eyes bulged, blue and globular, from beneath their heavy lids. When she spoke, however, her voice had sunk nearly to a whisper. “Oh, you fucking bitch. You fucking bitch. You have no idea, no idea, no fucking clue what I’m going to do to you. If I have to blow up the whole fucking bank, so help me.” She turned and stalked out of the conference room. I stood there, frozen, watching the door ease shut behind her until it closed at last with a final click.

“Messenger it? Are you kidding?” Banner wasn’t looking at me as

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he said this; his thumbs flew away on his BlackBerry, firing off some e-mail. I folded my arms. “Don’t we always messenger these things? Do you want me to e-mail it instead?” His eyes flashed upward. “No,” he said, as if he were stating the obvious. “I want you to deliver it yourself.” I was sitting in the chair in front of Banner’s desk, feeling like a kid hauled in to see the principal. As head of Capital Markets, he had one of

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the plushest offices in the building, full of dark brown furniture and gleaming upholstery, designed to strike clients into acquiescent awe. The lion-footed desk roared Important Antique, or at least a convincing reproduction, and the handsome wing chair in which I was sitting could swallow me whole without a burp. “Oh,” I said. “What about Charlie?” “Charlie? What the fuck?” He began to laugh. “You really don’t get it, do you? Look,” he said, still chuckling, “here’s Laurence’s e-mail address. Let him know you’re stopping by the office to drop it off. Say you’re on your way to the airport for Christmas, and thought you’d hand it off in person.” “But I’m not leaving until tomorrow morning,” I said feebly. “Katie, Katie.” He turned back to his phone. “Work with me here.” I straightened in the chair with some effort. “Look,” I began, about to make some high-minded protest, like I’m just not comfortable hanging myself up in the shop window like that. But then I realized two things. First, arguing with Banner over something like this was akin to the old saying about teaching a pig to sing. And second—God help me—I wanted to see Julian Laurence again. “Aren’t you going to check over the book first?” I asked instead, waving my hand at the printout on his desk. He didn’t look up. “No, I trust you. Look, I’ve got to get going. Did you write down his e-mail?” “Yes. Safe in the BlackBerry.” I held it up to demonstrate, but he wasn’t watching. “There you go, then. Merry fucking Christmas.” He ripped his gaze away from his phone and grinned at me. I struggled upward from the chair. “You too.” I snatched the presentation from his desk and stalked back to my cubicle, where my laptop bag slumped tiredly against the dividing wall in a bristle of zipper tabs. I stood there a minute, nibbling my lower lip, presentation dangling from my folded arms. Then I tossed the book on the desk and burrowed in the bag for my wallet.

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It took some time to find the scrap of paper I sought; it had wedged itself between my University of Wisconsin senior year ID and an ancient loyalty card from the hairdresser next door to my apartment in Madison. I removed it slowly and stared at the image for a long dense moment: a heart, colored in blue-black ink, surrounded by a circle with a slash across the center, like a traffic warning sign. I’d drawn it on the flight to New York City two and a half years ago, full of apprehension and introspection and a margarita or two from my farewell lunch with Michelle and Samantha. There, cruising above the patchwork farmlands of Pennsylvania, I’d promised myself—in the kind of melodramatic gesture that had once been typical of me—to avoid any kind of romantic involvement until I’d completed the three-year Sterling Bates analyst program. I’d take myself out of the game, keep my life neat and tidy, stay focused on work. Not a single date. Not even a casual flirtation. And I’d kept that vow with near-obsessive scrupulousness. So what now? Because I wasn’t stupid, and for all the orderly windowdressing of legitimate business purposes, Banner’s scheme had flirtation and more written all over it. Quickly, before I could second-guess myself, I stuffed the paper back in my wallet and reached for my phone to type a short message: Hello Julian, heading uptown now, can I drop off the ChemoDerma book on my way? Best, Kate Wilson. My fingers hovered uncertainly—should I make the greeting more formal?—but Dear Mr. Laurence sounded starchy and Dear Julian coyly intimate. I held my breath and hit send and tossed the phone on my desk, as if it were a ticking bomb. I looked over my cubicle. I should probably be gathering up my few things; I wouldn’t be back in the office until Monday. I reached for my bag and began putting file folders inside, mostly ChemoDerma material. There would be other meetings, after all. We were flying up to Boston on Tuesday.

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My phone buzzed. I counted off three full seconds before snatching it up. Already gone home for the day. Don’t suppose you’re on the Upper East? Julian.

My fingers danced over the keypad. Actually yes, 79th Street. The response came back just as fast. I’m at 52 E 74. Could you bring it by? Of course. Which apt? Just the house.

The entire house, his own private rectangle of Manhattan; why not? My fingers began to shake. This was bad. This was monumentally stupid. I should not be doing this. Okay, be there in half an hour.

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I

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felt Julian’s arm close around me, thick and steady along my waist. I tried to shrug it off, but my belly heaved up bile again and it was all I could do not to keel forward onto the floor. I felt the sweat pearl out on my temples. “Sorry,” I gasped, pulling away. “You’re ill. You must sit down.” “No, I’m all right, really. Just a little hungry.” “The tray should be along directly. I . . .” He stopped, looking awkward. I stood there witlessly, staring at the floor, holding an old blue vase full of my own vomit, or what there was of it, considering I hadn’t eaten in nearly eighteen hours. “I don’t know what you must think of me,” I said, sliding the vase behind my skirt. He cleared his throat. “I think you ought to sit down. Here,” he added, snatching the vase, “I’ll take that to the scullery.” “Oh, don’t. . . .” I said, but it was too late. I tottered back to the sofa and sank down with my head in my hands. Everything seemed to be sliding into disaster; worse, I was wasting time, my most precious resource. Think, Kate. Think. The door opened, and Julian walked back in, having disposed of the vase. I straightened and tried to smile, tried to push aside my embarrass-

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ment. It was easier than I thought; for one thing, I felt much better now that I’d thrown up. “The doctor will be here soon,” he said. “Really, it’s not necessary. I . . .” I broke off, not quite sure what to say. “The landlady should be along shortly,” he repeated. He paused and put his hands behind his back, standing there stiffly in the middle of the room, cap fixed to his head. As I watched, the faint shadow of his Adam’s apple rose and fell along the line of his throat, so fleeting I might have missed the movement with a single blink. Something like relief eased through my body at the sight of his nervousness, at the suggestion that, already, I had gained some small power over him. I positioned my hands modestly in my lap. “Thank you so much for your kindness, Captain Ashford,” I said, in a dulcet voice, angling my head. His eyes caught for an instant on my exposed throat. “You’ve been wonderful.” He hesitated. “I beg your pardon, but I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Have we perhaps met?” I felt my mouth turn up in a half-smile. “Met? Not exactly.” “And yet you know my name.” “Yes, I do.” He stood there expectantly, and I realized he was waiting for me to introduce myself. What was I going to say? Someone entered the room with a creak of stiff hinges and a heavy tread. I looked to the door and saw a burly woman in a long faded dress and apron, holding a battered tray before her. She did not look amused. “Une fille !” she scolded Julian. I could just make out the words, with my limited high school French. “You have brought a . . . a girl!” Words seemed to fail her. She crashed the tray onto the worn wooden table in the corner and glared at me balefully. “Ça suffit, madame,” he said. “She’s ill; the doctor will arrive in a few minutes. Thank you for the tea.”

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She left, grumbling, wiping her hands on her apron as though to brush away whatever illness I’d carried in with me. “Now I’ve got you in trouble with your landlady,” I said. “I’m awfully sorry.” “Quite all right. Would you like a bit of tea?” “I’d love tea. Thank you.” He poured me a cup. “Milk?” “No, thank you.” “Are you certain? There’s no sugar, I’m afraid.” He removed the leaves in a practiced gesture and offered me the cup. “Rationing and all that.” “I don’t mind.” The china stung my cold fingers with blissful heat; I raised it quickly to my lips. “And bread, perhaps?” “Yes, thank you.” He sawed off a slice from the baguette and handed it to me. I tried to restrain myself, to eat calmly, but the nausea had been replaced by the most ravenous hunger, and I couldn’t disguise the eagerness with which I ripped into the bread. “There now,” he said, sitting down in the chair next to the sofa. “Better?” “I’m sorry. I must seem very mysterious to you.” He inclined his head “Not at all.” “You want to know who I am, of course. You probably think I’m a spy, or worse.” I laughed hollowly. “Worse! I don’t see how it could possibly be worse. But I’m not a spy, Captain Ashford.” The teacup vibrated in my hands. “I’m . . .” A knock sounded on the door. “Come in,” Julian said, not taking his eyes from mine. I looked at the doorway. “Hello, Lieutenant Warwick,” I said. “Have you brought the doctor?” He stopped short, stunned. “How the devil does she know my name? Who is she?”

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“We haven’t got to that, yet,” Julian said, and turned to the other man, who’d followed Warwick through the door, right after the slight figure of Arthur Hamilton. “Vous êtes le medecin?” “Oui. C’est la fille, là ?” “Oui.” Julian began explaining my symptoms, and the doctor came toward me, eyes narrowed in clinical concern. “Monsieur, it’s nothing,” I said, in my halting French. “I’m just tired and hungry.” “You’ve vomited?” he asked. That, at least, was what I thought he said; he made a brief motion with his hand that seemed to be the universal sign for throwing up. “Yes, a little,” I replied. “It happens when I’m hungry.” He gave me a sharp, wise look. I cast my eyes downward, trying to look modest. “I will listen to your heart and lungs,” he announced, and removed a stethoscope from his black leather bag—a real leather doctor’s bag!—and did just that. I sat in my hollow of worn velvet, trying to breathe in a natural rhythm. He listened long and carefully, moving the cool metal of the stethoscope around my torso; he examined my eyes and throat and finally straightened to skewer Julian with a piercing stare. “She’s as well as can be expected,” he said. “Expected?” Julian asked quizzically. The doctor opened his mouth. “Because of hunger, isn’t it, monsieur?” I said. He turned back to me with both eyebrows raised and studied my expression. “Yes, hunger. How long has it been since madame has eaten?” “A day. I’ve been traveling.” I couldn’t remember the French word for travel, but I made walking motions with my fingers and the doctor nodded. “She must eat,” he said, turning back to Julian, “and rest.” “Fair enough,” said Geoff Warwick, in English. He looked at me. “Where are your friends in this town?”

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“Well,” I said, “I’m afraid I haven’t any. But I’m quite well now. It was only the strain of the journey, just now, and I thank you both very much for your concern. If I may, however, before I leave, have a private word with Captain Ashford?” They all looked at one another. “Yes, of course,” Julian said. “Perhaps . . . but you must eat . . .” He addressed Warwick. “Why don’t I run her over to the Chat for a bit of breakfast? It should be open by now.” “You’re serious, Ashford? She might be anyone, she might . . .” “I beg your pardon.” I stood up with as much dignity as I could manage: long neck, back straight, shoulders back. “I wouldn’t dream of imposing on your kindness. I only wish a short word with Captain Ashford, and I’ll be on my way.” “Warwick, you’re an ass,” Julian said, rising to his feet the instant my bottom had left the sofa cushion. “She’s a perfectly well-bred girl, as you can plainly see. The war’s imposed difficulties on us all, and I should think you’d show a little more humanity, of all people. I’m now going to see that she has a decent breakfast and decent lodging.” “Really, Warwick,” spoke up Hamilton. He’d been standing there diffidently, raindrops rolling away from his coat, watching the exchange; his expression wary, perhaps, but sympathetic. “I don’t see any reason for suspicion. Ashford’s only trying to do the right thing by the poor girl.” His accent was stiff, nasal: pooah gel. “Very well,” Warwick said to Julian, ignoring me. “Don’t forget we’re engaged with McGregor and Collins from ten o’clock.” “I shan’t be that long, I assure you.” Julian turned to the doctor, who still stood there, looking expectant, and addressed some low-voiced question to him. “Please,” I said hastily, reaching for my coat, “I’m not at all destitute . . .” But Julian had already pressed something into the doctor’s hand, and was gathering our coats and ushering us through the door; past Hamilton,

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who stood back respectfully; past Warwick, who fixed me with a spiteful glare. I returned it in full. I’d worked on Wall Street for three years; I could do the alpha stare. Plainly, Geoffrey Warwick didn’t like me. But then, he never had.

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Julian’s townhouse wasn’t quite what I was expecting. In the ruthless arithmetic of Manhattan real estate, you bought the finest you could possibly afford; the hierarchy of property aligned neatly with the hierarchy of wealth. A legendary Wall Street investor should inhabit the pinnacle of all: a wide pearl-white mansion just off Fifth Avenue, perhaps, with a ballroom inside and a service entrance below; or else a cavernous floor or two atop some monumental Park Avenue apartment building. This house was neither. It stood midway between Madison and Park, on a quiet street lined with trees, subdued and anonymous. It looked exactly like its neighbors on either side: twenty-odd feet wide; plain elegant Greek Revival lines; faced half with limestone, half with brick; entrance raised a few steps from street level. The number 52 was carved into the lintel above the front door. I raised my hand to press the doorbell and paused. I thought I could hear the sound of a piano drifting through the walls, something lilting and complex and faintly melancholy. Chopin? I closed my eyes. When I was young, my father had played a lot of Chopin on the old turntable he’d refused to give up. I hadn’t heard it in years; I couldn’t even name the piece, but the notes were as familiar to me as my childhood bedroom. A dark-clad figure approached, shuffling down the sidewalk. I shook off my reverie and pressed my finger against the doorbell. The music stopped abruptly. I heard footsteps, growing louder, and the door opened in a rush of warm air against my cheeks. I was half-expecting to see a butler of some

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kind, but it was Julian himself, unmistakably and devastatingly Julian, wearing a dark-blue turtleneck sweater over a pair of tan corduroys. “Hi,” I said. “Hello, there,” he answered. “Come on in.” “Oh, that’s okay. I just wanted to hand this off to you.” I held out a copy of the revised pitch book, bound together by David Doyle half an hour ago. “Thanks,” he said, taking it. “I appreciate your taking the trouble to bring it round.” He hesitated. “Um, well, I’d better get going,” I said. “Let me know if you have any questions. I’ll be checking my e-mail.” I began to turn. “Wait,” he said. “Do you mind coming in a moment, while I look it over?” He unleashed his smile, flattening me. “I should hate to have to interrupt your Christmas with any tedious e-mails.” “Oh, I don’t mind that. Goes with the territory, right?” I tried to smile back. “But yes, I have a couple of minutes, if you want me to wait.” “If it’s not too much trouble.” “Of course not.” He stood back, allowing me past him into the hallway. “Oh,” I said, under my breath. I’d expected to find the usual stripped-down bachelor interior, with all the walls knocked out and everything painted in bright stark white. But this was something else entirely. A flight of stairs stretched in front of me, at the end of an entrance hall tiled in worn checkerboard marble. To the right, a broad archway opened to the living room, a spacious high-ceilinged rectangle in which a fire burned invitingly beneath a pale marble mantel, flanked by two plump sofas. The walls, lit by a scattering of lamps, had been painted a warm goldenrod; the abundant trim work a creamy off-white. Books sat everywhere: on shelves, primarily, but also in haphazard stacks, on the floor, on the furniture. It was comfortable. Homelike. Julian stepped forward hastily and began removing the volumes from

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one of the sofas. “Sorry,” he said, setting them down on the floor. “I don’t know how they accumulate like that. They’re part rabbit, I think. Please sit down. Can I get you something? Let me take your coat.” He was nervous, I realized. The knowledge hit me like a bludgeon, shocking and rather paralyzing. Julian Laurence, nervous? Around me ? I felt his hands on my arms, removing my coat; he laid it over the top of the sofa. “I’m fine,” I said. “I didn’t mean to drop by like this. It was Banner’s suggestion. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you.” “Not at all. Sit. You’re sure I can’t get you something?” “No, really. I can only stay a minute.” He smiled, a small faint smile, and picked up the pitch book from a side table. “Then let’s get to it, shall we?” he suggested, sitting down on the sofa opposite me. He wore soft old moccasin slippers, curving about his feet with well-worn comfort. We were quiet for a moment. He bent over the pitch book and began flipping through the pages, leaning against the back of the sofa. I glanced down at the stack of books at my feet and squinted, trying to make out the titles. “Oh, I see what you’ve done,” he said after a moment or two. “Interesting. So you’ve broken it down into two scenarios . . .” “Yes,” I said. “The assumptions are in the footnotes.” “But look here,” he said. “If sales are going to be growing that much in the best-case scenario . . . Hold on a moment; I’ll get my laptop.” He rose and padded to the rear of the room, sliding open a pair of pocket doors to reveal what looked like a library, lined with still more bookshelves. I craned my neck to watch him. He went to a desk near the rear window, unplugged a MacBook and carried it back into the living room. “Do you mind?” he asked. “No, of course not,” I said. “I was trying to put together a proper model. I don’t usually do them anymore, frankly don’t find it that useful except as an exercise, but I

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thought . . . Let me just . . .” His voice drifted off. He frowned into the computer screen, tapping away at his model. He was so deep in concentration I felt, at last, it was safe to study him. I indulged shamelessly, staring at the squared-off tip of his chin, at the elegant line of his nose, at the full arc of his lips, all glowing in the light from the computer screen. His cheeks wore a faint pink stain, starting high on his cheekbones and then fading away into the tiny pinpricks of his beard. I wanted to reach out my hand and touch it. “Look here a moment,” he motioned to me. “This is what I’ve done.” I got up slowly, almost trancelike, and stepped over to the other sofa. He didn’t look up. “Look,” he pointed at the screen. “Don’t you think that’s more reasonable? Here, sit down. Hold the book a moment. Now if we look at year four . . .” I eased myself down next to him on the cushion, trying not to place myself too close, but it was no use. I could feel the slight warmth drifting from his body, smell the clean scent of his skin, hear the faint rush of his breath into the intimacy of the air between us. He was still holding out the presentation; I took it, folding back the previous pages with deliberate care. “Just a moment,” he said, “pardon me,” reaching across my lap to the lamp table next to the sofa. He opened a drawer at the top and withdrew a pen. “Now,” he went on, taking the book from me and scribbling something into the margin, “I think we need to shift this assumption . . .” “You’re left-handed,” I murmured. I thought I said it to myself, but it must have come out aloud. “No, right,” he said absently, and then closed his eyes. “I mean, yes, left.” I forced out a laugh. “I’m confused. Ambidextrous?” “No. Just some nerve damage a while back. I learned to write with my left hand.” “Oh. I’m sorry,” I said, and then added, after a pause, “But wasn’t that you playing the piano, when I came up?”

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He looked surprised, and then embarrassed. “And here I thought the walls were soundproof. Sorry about that.” “No, it was lovely.” “It was execrable. But to answer your question, it doesn’t affect my dexterity so much, or at least not anymore. It’s just the grip that’s painful.” He held up his right hand to demonstrate. “Wow. How did it happen?” He paused; the color in his cheeks intensified. “Car accident.” “Oh no!” I couldn’t help myself. I could almost hear the horrifying crunch of glass and metal. I only just stopped my hand before it reached up to grasp his. “Oh, it wasn’t as bad as that,” he said easily, wiggling his fingers. “Still whole, after all.” “You should be more careful,” I muttered. “You’re assuming it was my fault.” “Wasn’t it? I can just picture you driving your brand-new Porsche at a hundred miles an hour down the freeway, celebrating your first big bonus.” “Hmm.” His expression turned speculative. “And what did you do with your first bonus?” I laughed. “I’m just an analyst, remember? My share of the bonus pool amounts to about a shotglass-full. I think I went out and got a new pair of shoes, last time, and socked the rest away in the apartment fund.” “Apartment fund?” He seemed amused. “My roommate’s wearing a little thin,” I said. “I’d like to buy my own place. Which at this rate will be a hall closet in Washington Heights, but that’s why I’m going to business school.” “Business school! You’re joking, surely.” “No, I’m serious. Why would I be joking?” “Because you’re too good for this. Come now, you don’t really want to be an investment banker all your life, do you?” “Why not?”

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“That’s the wrong question. Not why not, but rather why ? Why waste your life around chaps like that Banner idiot?” He looked genuinely concerned. I shifted my gaze downward and fingered the edge of the presentation. “Look, I’m from Wisconsin. Typical suburban environment. I left to make something of myself, and Wall Street seemed the obvious place to start. Where the action was.” “From Wisconsin,” he said. “I’d never have guessed Wisconsin.” “Well, we don’t all sound like we’ve just stepped off the set of Fargo.” “That’s not what I meant. I . . .” He checked himself. “In any case, I never went to business school, and it hasn’t done me any harm.” “Yes, but you’re . . .” I waved my hand at him. A phone rang, somewhere behind us: the library, probably. “I’m what?” he pressed. “Aren’t you going to get that?” “It can wait. Answer the question.” “I can’t answer it with a phone ringing in my ears. Will you please?” He sighed and got up; I heard his footsteps disappear around the back of the sofa and drew a deep breath. I didn’t think I could take much more of this. All my high-minded principles had evaporated, just when I needed them most, just when I was tumbling into exactly the sort of situation I’d wanted to avoid. Because Julian Laurence—beautiful, brilliant, leonine Julian—could eat me for breakfast. Could swallow my heart whole and go bounding off with it, never to be seen again. And I doubted I had the willpower to stop him. The ringing stopped, and the low musical murmur of his voice drifted between the rooms. I rose from the sofa and walked to one of the bookshelves built in on either side of the mantel. The fire had been going for some time. It was small and compact and extremely hot, hissing and popping discreetly in a pile of spent ash. I ran my fingers along the spines of the books. A wide-ranging collection, I thought to myself, smiling; it ran

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the gamut from Dean Koontz to Winston Churchill to Virgil, in the original Latin. Nothing like a British boarding-school education. The books were packed in tightly; in fact, no room had been left for anything but books. No pictures, no objets, no random clutter. Nothing personal, really, unless you considered a man’s choice of reading material the most personal thing of all. “Snooping, I see,” came Julian’s voice, far too close. I jumped. “Jeez! You just took a year off my life.” I nodded my head to the shelves. “Do you really read Latin?” “Not a terribly useful skill these days, is it?” “Not everything has to be useful. I assume you learned it at school?” “Yes, an old-fashioned education.” Was that a note of strain in his voice? I turned and looked at him closely. His face had changed, had dimmed somehow, as though he’d gone through and turned off all the unnecessary lights. “Everything all right?” I asked. “The phone call, I mean?” “Yes, yes. Quite all right.” He folded his arms and smiled, somewhat forced. “I’ve got to fly up to Boston tomorrow, that’s all.” “On Christmas Eve?” “Hard luck, I know.” “Don’t you . . .” I swallowed. “Aren’t you going anywhere for Christmas?” He shrugged. “Geoff has me over for Christmas dinner every year. And services, of course.” “Your family isn’t . . .” “Around,” he finished for me. “Don’t worry. I’m over it, as they say. See anything you like?” He nodded upward, and I followed his eye. “Oh, wow,” I said. “Patrick O’Brian. Are those first editions?” “I indulge myself.” He sounded embarrassed. “I love O’Brian. Historical fiction in general. My friends were always giving me crap about it in college; everyone else was reading chick lit. Shopaholic, that kind of thing. Michelle thinks I was born in the wrong century.” I laughed stiffly.

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He didn’t reply. I turned around after a moment. He looked peculiar, preoccupied. The tiny lines about his eyes had deepened; his mouth compressed in an unyielding line. I tried to think of something to say, but he spoke first. “Do you ?” he asked, his voice wound strangely tight. “Do I what?” “Think you were born in the wrong century.” I laughed. “Well, not literally, I guess. I mean, who wants to die in childbirth? But I do sometimes wish . . .” My voice trailed off. “Wish what?” “Well, nothing’s a life or death struggle anymore, is it? The era of honor and sacrifice is over.” I looked again at the O’Brian novels, lined up in order. “Jack Aubrey’s full of human failings—so’s Maturin—but they have principles, and they’d give their lives for them. Or for each other. Now it’s all about money and status and celebrity. Not that people haven’t always cared about those things, but it used to be considered venal, didn’t it?” I shrugged. “It’s like nobody bothers to grow up anymore. We just want to be kids all our lives. Collecting toys, having fun.” “So what’s the remedy?” “There is no remedy. We are who we are, right? Life moves on. You can’t get it back.” “Yes,” he said. “Quite. Here you are, off to business school, after all.” “Here you are, running a hedge fund.” He smiled at that. “So what would you propose, to win my soul back?” “I don’t know. Not one of those pansy philanthropic foundations, that’s for sure. Something more interesting. More skin in the game. Maybe manning your own letter of marque and going after all those Somali pirates, off the African coast.” He began laughing, a rich comfortable sound. “You’re priceless. And where would I find a crew reckless enough to go along with me?” “I’d go in a heartbeat,” I said, without thinking. The smallest pause, and then: “Would you, now?”

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Oh, genius, Kate. I cleared my throat and looked back at the bookcase. “Well, except for having to earn a living and all.” “Ah. Had we better get back to work, then?” I checked my watch. The two sides of my brain struggled briefly: the one that wanted desperately to stay, all night and all week and really all my life, drowning in the light from that beautiful face of his; and the one that wanted to bolt away in mortal fear. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I’ve already stayed too long. I’ve got an early flight from LaGuardia tomorrow morning and, to be honest, I haven’t had much sleep the last few days.” I couldn’t quite bring myself to meet his eyes, but I felt them penetrating me. “What an ass I am,” he said at last. “You’re exhausted, of course.” “A little.” “My fault, I expect, demanding all these rewrites.” He ran a hand through his golden hair. “I beg your pardon. Go home and sleep. I’ll have a look at these over Christmas and we’ll speak again when you’re back in the city.” “Thanks.” “I’ll just get your coat,” he said, moving to the sofa and lifting it from the back. He held it out to me. “Here you are, then.” I let him help me into the coat, a novel experience, and then grabbed my laptop bag and headed numbly for the hallway. “Look,” I heard him say, and I turned at once, nearly burying my nose into his sweater. “Sorry,” I muttered. “Sorry,” he said, at the same time; we smiled awkwardly, stepping apart. “Look, I . . . would it be at all proper . . .” He closed his eyes, and then opened them again with a slight rueful tilt to his mouth. “I suppose I’m trying to ask whether I might see a little of you, after Christmas.” “Um, sure.” I tucked my hair behind my ear and examined the wall behind his shoulder. “You have my e-mail, right?” “Yes. I . . .” He stopped. “Will you look at me a moment?”

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“What is it?” I asked, dragging my eyes to meet his gaze. “Christ,” I thought I heard him whisper, under his breath, and then, more audibly, “I just want to be clear that it’s nothing to do with ChemoDerma, or any of that rubbish.” “Look here. Don’t go around insulting my client, if you think you want to see me again.” Not bad, Wilson. How did you manage that ? He smiled again, more fully. “ChemoDerma’s a lovely, lovely company. I can’t stop thinking about it. I shall tuck that charming little pitch book under my pillow tonight.” “Much better.” He reached one crooked finger into the space between us; it hovered for an instant, and then brushed along the line of my jaw. “Have a safe flight tomorrow,” he said. “You too.” And then, somehow, I found the strength to turn and walk out.

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4.

[via e-mail] Julian: Kate, at LaGuardia, just boarding now. Pitch book tucked inside my coat, safe and warm. Shall read on the flight. Julian. Me: What, no private jet? What kind of billionaire hedgehog are you? Kate. Julian: A disgrace to the name, apparently. Geoff gave me a NetJets share for Christmas last year, but I keep forgetting to use it. Me: How do you forget to use a private jet? Julian: Shareholders first. Where are you now? Me: In a taxi, stuck on the Triborough. Flight’s in an hour. I’m getting nervous. Julian: If you miss the plane, I’ll ring up NetJets for you. Me: Like that wouldn’t raise a few eyebrows back home. Here’s Kate coming back for Christmas in a Gulfstream. How many carbon offsets would I have to buy? Julian: Hold on to that thought. I’m supposed to switch my phone off right now.

Me: [later] Where are you sitting? Julian: 8C Me: Hmm, an aisle guy.

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Julian: And you? Me: Window. 12A. All right, pulling up to the airport. Later.

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Julian: Did you make your flight? Me: Barely. Hold on, they’re calling my row. Julian: Starting to descend now. Boston looking brown and un-Christmaslike.

Me: [later] All settled in. So are you overnighting in Boston? Julian: No. Flying back to NY after the meeting. Me: And doing what? Julian: Glass of wine, good book. Pondering the mysteries of that marvelous company of yours. And you? Me: Family stuff. Dinner, eggnog, carols. You’re spending Christmas Eve alone? Aren’t you supposed to be having dinner with Geoff? Julian: That’s tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’m quite all right. Altogether used to it. Though you’re welcome to check in, if you like. Me: I’ll send you so much Christmas cheer your head will spin. What’s Geoff like? Julian: Good chap, rather boring wife, two rambunctious children. Me: Boring how? Julian: Conventional. Lives in Greenwich. Shops a great deal. Aspen in January, Nantucket in August. The twins have three nannies. Me: Yikes. Oops, we’re taxiing. Evil eye from flight attendant. Later.

Julian: Rough landing. On way to taxi. Me: So where is this meeting of yours? Julian: Harvard. Me: The endowment fund? How long will you be? Julian: Don’t know. Will let you know when I’m out. Should hate to miss a moment of your Christmas cheer.

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Me: Do you still have the presentation with you? Julian: Next to my heart.

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beat ri z w i lli am s Me: Stop. You had me at hello. Julian: So there’s hope. Just pulling up now. Thinking of you.

Me: [later] Landed safely. I’m in the car with Mom and Dad. There’s about three feet of snow. Thinking of you too.

Julian: [much later] Just left meeting. Glad you got in all right. Me: Wow. Long meeting. Which shuttle are you taking? Julian: 8pm. Me: Maybe you’ll see the big guy’s sleigh ;-) According to the NORAD Web site he’s over the Atlantic right now. Julian: Shall keep watch. Happy Christmas, Kate. Me: Merry Christmas. Wish you could see the festive spirit around here. My mom always goes a little overboard. The front yard is a total embarrassment.

Me: [later] Checking in, as promised. Lots of merriment here. I think Dad overdid the brandy in the eggnog. His cousin Pete keeps trying to get Mom under the mistletoe. How are you getting along? Julian: Rather shattered, in fact. Heading for bed. Me: Good night, then. Are you sure you’re okay? Julian: Right as rain. Good night. Stay away from Cousin Pete.

Me: [much later the next day] Julian, just wanted to say Merry Christmas. Kate. Julian: You too. Off to Geoff’s.

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Me: Enjoy.

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Julian: [Sunday afternoon] Dear Kate, I hope your Christmas was happy, without too much frightful knitwear lurking under the tree. I’ve been thinking, over the past few days, that it might be more prudent to hold off on any personal contact until after the ChemoDerma IPO. It’s nothing at all to do with you, on my honor; I only want to forestall the prospect of the ruddy SEC piling on my doorstep at the moment. I do hope you understand, and of course you need not consider yourself bound in any way in the meantime. Let me add, however, that if you should have need of me for any reason, you have only to call, whatever the hour. I shall always pray for your safety and happiness. Yours, Julian.

Me: [later] Julian, I was kind of thinking the same thing. Thanks for the heads-up. You phrased it very well. Take care. Kate.

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I decided to head home early and go for a run in Central Park. Of course, around here, going home early meant something like eight o’clock, but the long hours were no longer something I resented about life at Sterling Bates. Busy was good. “Hey, Kate. Free for coffee?” The voice, bright and cheerful like a ray of freaking sunshine, belonged to Alicia. She leaned over the wall of my cubicle, smiling down at me with her small mouth in its large round face. She was growing her hair out, and it hung listlessly in an in-between stage that suited her even less than the pixie cut. “Actually, I was thinking of going running this evening,” I told her, trying to sound as cheerful as she did. Rumors had swarmed around Sterling Bates all winter, and everyone was watching breathlessly for my inevitable breakdown. According to Charlie, people were convinced I’d had a one-night stand with Julian Laurence on Paul Banner’s orders, and then been turned out the next morning like a whore on the streets, never to hear from him again. Embellishments had evolved into the story over the months—apparently I’d gone in for an abortion in early February and submitted the charge on my expense sheet—but the basic theme hadn’t changed, and my only weapon against the gossip was a fierce and unrelenting good mood. Especially with Alicia. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done.

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“Have some coffee first,” she insisted. “It’ll rev you up.” I bared my teeth in a smile. “Sure. Why not?” A week after Christmas, I’d received an e-mail from Alicia, apologizing for her rude behavior and asking if we could start fresh. Strangely enough, she seemed to mean it. She’d taken me under her wing, bought me coffee, dragged me to lunch, even brought me out drinking with some of her witchy friends. I’d gone along with her—it was something to do, after all, something to keep my brain from looping back to its preoccupations— until it became an expected habit. I was almost growing to like her. Going to Starbucks meant taking about ten steps outdoors, from the revolving-door entrance of Sterling Bates to the storefront next to it. On this particular afternoon, they were easy steps to make: it was beautiful outside, that brief period in Manhattan between the fitful bluster of spring and the sticky breathless heat of summer. The warmth of daytime still lingered around us; the sun had only just begun to disappear behind the towers to the west. I drew in the limpid air gratefully. The urge to run pulsed through my muscles. Spring fever. “So has Banner talked to you about the gala thing at MoMA tomorrow night?” Alicia asked, taking a drink of her latte. “Banner doesn’t talk to me much lately.” “Oh yeah.” Her mouth twitched. “Well, I spoke to him about it this afternoon, and we agreed you should go.” I wrapped my lips around my straw and drew in my Frappuccino before replying. “Hmm. What is it, exactly?” “Just a fund-raiser for some big charity. Capital Markets always buys a table, and Banner has his jollies picking which of us should go.” I fell silent for a moment. If memory served, last year’s gala had been the venue for Julian Laurence’s sole appearance in the gossip columns. “I’m not sure I have anything to wear,” I said, drawing out my words with care. “Perfect. We can go shopping. You can ditch after lunch tomorrow; there’s not much work anyway right now.” “Well . . .”

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“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. You could use a little fun. It’s why I made Banner put you on the list.” “No, no. I’m looking forward to it.” I pushed out another false smile. “I haven’t gotten dressed up like that since the Sigma Nu formal, freshman year.” She shuddered. “Yuck. We are definitely going shopping.” “So who else is going?” I asked casually. “Well, Banner, of course. Me. Two VPs. You. Then a few clients.” “You should ask Charlie. He’s been working hard. He deserves a night out.” She tilted her head at me and lifted her latte to her lips. “Yeah,” she said thoughtfully, “you’re right. He can be, like, your wing man.” “Why would I need a wing man?” “Come on, Kate. These things are full of rich guys.” She winked. “You can totally get laid.”

The golden weather had beckoned all the runners out tonight,

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the regulars and the stragglers, but most had started earlier and began to drop off, one by one, as the sky grew purple and twilight wrapped around the horizon. Alicia had been right; the coffee did rev me up. I bounded easily up the hill toward the main drive and settled into an effortless pace, taking pleasure in the rhythm of my feet striking the pavement, in the feeling of grace that overtook me after the first half-mile or so, deep and meditative. Of course, meditation was a dangerous thing for me these days. Inevitably I began to think of Julian, and it took effort to turn that around, to force my brain ruthlessly to pursue some piece of busy-work: calculating how I was going to pay for business school next fall, for example, or how long my savings would last at various rates of cash burn. Tidy puzzles to solve. I lasted longer than usual. I ran north, counterclockwise, and had gone

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around the far end of the park for the steady climb toward Ninety-sixth Street before my mind began to slip its ropes and wander away. Desperately I tried to haul it back in, but it was no use. Julian’s face began to appear before me, that impossibly handsome face; his glowing eyes, his expressive smile. I thought of our e-mail exchange on Christmas Eve, so tender and funny and then so abruptly cold; that last Dear Kate, so exquisitely phrased, with its odd formality at the end, like he’d copied it from one of those old model letter books. As if I could ever think of calling on him for help. Hi, Julian. Kate here. Could you write me a recommendation for my summer internship? Thanks a bunch! It would have been easier, in a way, if something had happened; if there had been anything between us other than a few words, a few intense looks, a sense of dawning understanding. I could be angry with him then. I could wallow in self-righteous bitterness, label him a heartless bastard, throw a few darts at his photograph, and move on. It was infinitely more difficult to have no one to blame. He had behaved impeccably, really. After that graceful good-bye, he hadn’t tried to reach me again, not even after the ChemoDerma deal fell apart in February. Humiliating, of course, but better than having the agony drawn out with sporadic impersonal contact. All communication between the two firms had gone instead through Geoff Warwick and Banner. I’d heard a rumor, a few days ago, that Southfield was winding down its remaining positions, cashing out, and even closing down. Rumors like that were running about Wall Street like frightened rabbits these days. A feeling had seeped into the air, the faint frisson of a market on the point of turning, if you listened to the whispers. Housing market, mortgagebacked securities, write-downs, bank capital ratios. Not stuff you really wanted to think about, but looming there in the background, hard to ignore completely. Twilight had settled in by the time I crested the hill and began descending through the shadowed woods, green sunk into black. The busy swarm of runners around the Met had thinned out into almost nothing; I heard

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only a hint of movement from behind, someone pounding against the asphalt like me, breathing hard and steady with the effort of climbing the hill. A bicycle swept by, and another. The transept approached through the trees on my left, and a man flashed into view between the branches, running hard into the merge with the West Drive. He was big and lean, radiating belligerence. Manhattan burst with them: aggressive animals who took out their frustrations on the park loop, creating impromptu competitions that might last fifty yards or five miles. I hung back, not wanting to take up any fresh challenges at the moment, but then changed my mind and drove on. I was in good form. I could handle it. A blowout would do me some good: push myself just a little too hard, crash the barrier. He reached the merge just before me, but instead of banking left onto the drive, he made a hard right, without even looking. His heavy arm smashed into my shoulder, knocking me sideways into the pavement. I felt the hard thud of impact with shock. I’d been running fast, and so had he. He still was. He hadn’t even slowed down to see if I was okay. “Watch it, jerk!” I yelled after him, without thinking. I could feel pain begin to gather in my limbs. Definitely needing Band-Aids. Crap. And then I began to shake with rage. “I said watch it, jerk!” I yelled again recklessly, as the adrenaline hit my blood. All this happened in about three seconds. In the next, he turned around. “What the fuck, bitch!” he shouted. “What the fuck!” “You knocked me down!” “You got in my fucking way!” “Asshole,” I muttered, picking myself up. He rushed me. I braced myself an instant before the crash, closing my eyes and twisting to spare my soft underbelly. This was going to hurt. This was ambulance time. Stupid, stupid Kate. Sorry, Mom. But the impact, when it came, glanced right off me. I staggered back-

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ward a few paces, astonished to find myself still standing up, and opened my eyes. Two men were rolling on the pavement in front of me. The runner, I remembered. The runner behind me. Or maybe a passing bicyclist. Some freaking hero. The rolling stopped. One of them straddled the other, throwing punches like a machine, swift and expert. Something dark splattered against my leg. “Oh my God!” I choked out. “Stop it! Somebody help!” Nobody came. A bicyclist flashed by without stopping; maybe he didn’t see us in the shadows, maybe he just thought we were a bunch of drunk teenagers. Maybe he just didn’t care. “Stop it!” I screamed again, louder, frantic. “Stop it! You’re killing him!” Suddenly the man on top jumped off, wiping his right hand on his shorts. The man on the bottom lay still. “Oh crap,” I whispered. The victor turned to me. “Are you okay?” he asked urgently, holding out his arms. I couldn’t discern his face in the near-darkness, but I knew his voice. “Oh my God,” I said. “Julian?” “Christ, Kate.” His hands were running down my arms, my legs, checking for injuries. “Does anything hurt?” “Everything hurts,” I muttered, and then my nose crashed against his clavicle, and his arms bound like steel around my body. We said nothing, only breathing against one another, shuddering, until he pushed me away suddenly, gently. “You’re shaking. You’re in shock.” “I’m all right.” “No, you need a blanket. Some kind of . . . hell.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Don’t worry. I’m okay. What . . . what are you doing here?” “Out for a run.” His voice was grim.

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A groan escaped the man on the ground. “Let’s get going,” Julian said. “And leave him here?” “He’s all right,” he said scornfully. “Arsehole.” The word sounded especially crude in his cut-glass British voice. “What if he, like, dies?” “He’s not going to die, Kate, I assure you.” He met my eyes and drew in a heavy breath. “All right. I’ll call 911 and leave a tip.” “We have to stay. We can’t just walk away. It’s, like, a crime scene. Sort of.” His knuckles rested on his hips. I could feel his frown, though I couldn’t quite make it out in the gloaming. He looked at the body on the pavement, and then turned back to enclose me in a long silent stare. “Fine. But it’s going to get messy. You’ll have to give a statement, maybe appear in court. He’ll probably sue me, once he knows who I am.” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t worry. Not your fault. I can afford a lawyer, for God’s sake.” He drew out a phone from the pocket of his running shorts and punched the keypad. “I suppose it’s the right thing, anyway,” he muttered. “Not that he deserves it, mind you.” I felt my muscles begin to tremble now, breaking past my determination to stay calm. I wrapped my arms around my middle. Julian was talking on the phone, rapid and calm, facing the prone man, but he saw my movement peripherally and his eyes flicked over to me. He reached out his left arm and drew me in. “She seems all right,” he was saying, “but she’s beginning to go into shock. I’m trying to keep her warm. Yes. All right. Two minutes. Thanks very much.” He slid the phone back into his shorts and put his other arm around me. “They’ll be here shortly. Try to breathe slowly.” “Really, I’m okay,” I insisted, forcing down the sob. I’d never had hysterics, and I wasn’t going to start now, with Julian Laurence holding me in his arms. His thick heather-gray T-shirt felt soft against my face, slightly

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damp with sweat; his chest radiated with lovely heat. “So how did you happen to be out running just now?” I demanded. “Ruddy good luck, I suppose,” he said. I turned that over for a few seconds, and then something occurred to me. “And where did you learn to punch like that?” “Hmm. University.” “They teach boxing at college in England?” “The sweet science. Feeling better?” His arms began to ease. “Yes, a little. What if he wakes up?” “Don’t worry,” he said darkly, and I shut up. I could hear a siren now, at the outer fringes of my hearing. “I guess this isn’t the right time to talk . . .” I began. “Hush,” he said, running his palms along my back. The siren was getting louder. “We’ll talk later.”

The police took one look at the situation—my scrapes and bruises, the groaning figure on the pavement, our forthright explanations, Julian’s knuckles—and didn’t give us much trouble, beyond taking down our statements and names and addresses. They’re pretty smart, the NYPD. They can tell the good guys from the bad. Still, it was late when I got back to my apartment. One of the policemen gave us a ride to the East Side in his cruiser, and dropped me off first. “You’re really all right?” Julian asked, as I put my hand on the door handle. “Nothing a little Neosporin can’t cure,” I promised. “Um, thanks, by the way. I’ve never been rescued before.” “I could have lived without it.” “Of course. Bad joke.” I hesitated. “Sorry about the trouble. I mean, I really am.”

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His voice went soft. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, and paused. “Take care.” Was that it? Take care? “You too,” I said, and got out of the cruiser. It sped off down Seventyninth Street and turned right on Lexington, down the eleven blocks to Julian’s house.

Phone. Phone ringing. I scrabbled at my bedside table for my Black-

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Berry and pressed the green button. “Hello?” The ringing kept on going. Must be the land line. I rolled out of bed and squinted at the clock. Six-thirty in the morning. Who the hell could it be? I couldn’t even think straight. Where was the phone? Somewhere in the living room, right? We almost never used it. I found it at last. “Hello?” I mumbled. “Is this Katherine Wilson?” “Speaking.” “This is Amy Martinez from the New York Post. I understand you were involved in an incident in Central Park last night with Julian Laurence of Southfield Associates?” The headset slipped from my fingers to crash on the floor. My thumbs flew. Julian, the Post just called. What should I say ? Call me. I don’t know your number. Kate. PS So, so sorry. The phone rang a minute later. “Kate?” “Julian. I’m so sorry.” “Enough of that rubbish. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” “You’re right, we should have left him there. I’m so stupid. I didn’t think about what it all meant for you.” I heard him sigh. “Kate, it’s irrelevant. I can handle a bit of press.” “But you hate publicity.” Silence. “What makes you say that?”

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“You’re never in the papers. You never give interviews. And now Page Six is calling me and drawing God knows what conclusions . . .” “Calm down, darling. What did you say to them?” “Um. I said no comment,” I mumbled. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say? I mean, I’ve never talked to a reporter before . . .” “What was her name?” “Amy something. Menendez?” “Martinez. I’ll call her and sort things out. Go back to sleep.” “Sleep ? I have to go to work. Oh, crap. Work. What should I tell them?” “Tell them the truth. If they ask.” “Which is?” He laughed at that point. “Which is that we were running in the park, and some rotter tried to attack you.” “Oh, sure. That will shut them all up.” “Look, I don’t mind. Tell them whatever you like, whatever sounds right to you. Let me handle Miss Martinez. We’ve spoken before.” My shoulders slumped. “Okay. Gladly.” “And don’t apologize,” he warned, just as I opened my mouth to do it. “Right,” I said. “Okay. Thanks.” “Good. How are you feeling?” he asked. “Sore. You?” “Right as rain. Now take some aspirin and go to work. I’ll handle it.” “All right.” I paused. “Thanks, Julian. I mean that.” “Good-bye, Kate. I’ll ring you later.” I hung up the phone and stared at it. Aspirin? Who the hell took aspirin anymore?

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6.

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By lunchtime, the word was out. Charlie cornered me in one of the unused conference rooms in the far corners of the Capital Markets floor. I hadn’t turned on the lights. I was hoping no one would notice me there. “Dude, what the fuck?” he asked incredulously, under his breath. “You’re all over the Internet.” “Oh God. Seriously?” “Julian Laurence really laid some guy out for you?” “It was all just a big misunderstanding,” I said weakly. “Some fucking misunderstanding. It’s on Gawker, dude.” “Gawker? You’ve got to be kidding me!” “Serious as a fucking heart attack. Links to the Smoking Gun.” “What’s that?” He pulled my laptop over and began typing a new URL. “It’s this Web site that posts public documents. Divorce filings and police reports, shit like that. And there! Boo-ya!” He turned the screen so I could see it. “Wow,” I said, impressed. There was last night’s police report, every livid detail. “So is that pretty much how it went down? And why were you out running with Julian Laurence, anyway?” “I wasn’t. He just happened to be there when the guy ran into me.” Charlie’s eyebrows lifted. He was no idiot. “Just happened to be there, huh?” “Yeah. Wild, huh?” He shook his head. “Full of shit, Kate. Full of shit. I thought we were friends.”

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“Charlie, I swear to God, I did not go out running with Julian Laurence last night! I was totally shocked when he came up and laid into that jerk.” “Shocked, shocked,” he said, like the guy in Casablanca. “Seriously, Charlie. I wouldn’t lie to you. Alicia and Banner, maybe, but not you.” He sat down in the chair next to me and swiveled for a moment. “All right. Fine. So do you think it was actually a coincidence? Or was he following you?” “I don’t know,” I mumbled, turning back to my computer and propping up my chin with one hand. “It would be some fucking coincidence,” he offered. “Yeah,” I said. “Are you okay? You’re not, like, hurt or anything?” “Oh, now you think of my well-being. Once all the gossip is cleared away.” He flashed me a smile. “Hey, priorities! Seriously, though. You’re all right?” “I am totally all right. Just a couple of scrapes.” I pointed to my right arm. “Band-Aid stuff.” “Awesome. So have you had lunch yet?” “Charlie, there’s no way I’m poking my nose out of this conference room.” He considered this for a second or two. “I can bring you back something.” “Why are you being so freaking nice?” “Fucking nice,” he corrected me. “Because you’re famous now, and our celebrity-obsessed cultural imperative makes me, like, want to suck up to you. Reuben, maybe?” “Too greasy. Maybe something from that soup guy around the corner?” He stood up. “Done.” “And a Diet Coke?” “Don’t push it. You’re not that famous. Oh, fuck me. I’m outta here.” He dashed out of the conference room like I’d stung him, brushing past Alicia Boxer with a muttered, “Hey, dude.” She frowned at his disappearing figure, and then turned back to me

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with a broad grin. “Wow, Kate! You dark horse, you! Now I know why you jumped at the gala invitation like that.” She sat down in the chair Charlie had just left. “So what happened?” “Oh, it’s totally blown out of proportion,” I told her. “I was out for a run, and some guy tried to get all macho on me, and Julian sort of punched him.” She tilted her head speculatively. “So you two are like, together?” “No, we’re just friends.” “Wow.” She smiled. “Some friend.” “He’s a good guy,” I said. “Hmm.” Her lips pursed. “So are we still on for dress shopping today? I can, like, sneak you out the back way if you like.” I opened my mouth to decline, but then an image crossed my mind: me, in some devastating black gown, sweeping through the doorway to an admiring crowd. Which included Julian Laurence. I stood up. “Let’s go.”

We were deep inside Barneys before I remembered Charlie and the soup.

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“Oh, he can eat it himself,” Alicia said. “What about this one?” She held up a long red dress with a V neckline cut down to the navel. “Um, I was thinking of maybe an empire waist,” I said. “It kind of suits me.” She frowned and looked me over. “You have to have a certain kind of body to wear that well, Kate,” she said. Whatever that meant, I thought crossly. “Well, I still like it,” I insisted. “O-kay,” she said. “What about this one?” “I’ll try it.” I had just caught sight of something a few racks away and began threading my way warily around the swinging hangers. My phone rang. My heart leapt at the sound, but when I took my BlackBerry out of my

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pocket, the number on the screen wasn’t Julian’s. I sighed and popped the Bluetooth into my ear. “Hi, Mom,” I said. “What’s up?” “Honey, are you all right ?” “Oh, Mom, you’re not crying, are you?” “Mary Alice called me with the news. What happened ? Were you . . . mugged ?” She said it in a hissing kind of whisper, like raped. “It was nothing. Some guy ran into me in the park, and a friend stepped in to help me out.” “Well, who’s this friend ? Mary Alice says he’s some kind of . . . billionaire.” Again, the hissing whisper. For God’s sake. “Mom, he runs a hedge fund, that’s all. He’s like a client.” “Like a client? Or is a client?” Mom was invariably at her sharpest when it was least convenient. “It’s hard to explain. Wall Street stuff.” “Oh, honey. How badly were you hurt?” “Hardly at all. Just a few scrapes.” “But you must have been traumatized!” “Mom, the police took care of everything . . .” “Police! ” Oops. “You’re making way too much out of this,” I hissed back, fingering the dress. It was long and flesh-colored, with a low straight neckline and tiny glittering beads scattered widely over the gauzy skirt: the kind of dress that would drape just so, without looking as if either of us were trying too hard. “Honey,” she said, after a few seconds of stunned silence, “I’m flying out there tonight.” “No! Oh my God, Mom, don’t ! I’m fine, absolutely fine!” Alicia had wandered over and was looking critically at the dress I’d picked out. She lifted it off the rack and held it up to me with a moue of disapproval on her face. “Honey, you were mugged !”

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“For the last time, I wasn’t mugged. It was just an . . . an altercation. Please don’t fly out. Save your money. Think of that retirement in Florida.” Alicia snickered and put the dress back on the rack. I motioned frantically at her to hand it back. “I don’t want to retire to Florida.” “Look, I’ve got to go. I’m in the middle of Barneys right now. Just don’t fly out, okay? I’m totally fine. Physically and mentally.” “I love you, honey.” “Love you. Bye.” I hung up the phone and slid it back in my bag. “Don’t put it back. I’m going to try it on.” “For real? There’s a ton of much better stuff.” “I like it.” “All right,” she sighed, handing me back the dress. “I’m heading home to get ready, so I’ll see you there. Remember, cocktails at seven-thirty. Be late.” “Be late?” “Only the losers arrive on time.”

Well, call me a loser. I took a long bubble bath, I shaved my legs, I

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exfoliated and masked and moisturized and put on practically invisible new Band-Aids. I even did my toenails. But with all that, with dressing and makeup and hair, with fielding calls from various friends and acquaintances and distant relatives until at last I just turned my phone off, I still found myself pulling up to MoMA in a taxi at seven twenty-nine. I blamed it on the traffic. Park Avenue had been as swift as a motor speedway, which only happens when you’re not in a hurry. There were about eight people there when I walked in, all of them male and over forty. I went directly to the bar. “Champagne, please,” I said to the bartender. “Straight up.” He winked. “Coming right up.” He whipped out a champagne flute

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and poured. “So,” he said, “what’s a gorgeous girl like you doing here so early?” I took the flute. “Hiding from the press,” I answered, drinking deep. He laughed and refilled my glass. I wandered over to the silent auction and glanced at the rows of lots and clipboards, ordinary objects describing the extraordinary, visual evidence of the lavish world around which I’d hovered these past three years. Lunch and batting practice with Derek Jeter came with a suggested starting bid of $25,000. Lunch and an on-air segment with Brian Williams started at $35,000. I saw plenty of spa visits and weekends in Aspen; a week aboard a private 150-foot yacht, complete with captain, crew, and private chef; a stunning diamond rivière from Harry Winston; a case of 1982 Bordeaux from Sherry-Lehmann with a price tag that made my eyeballs pop out and roll onto the floor. I smiled privately at the sight of a Marquis JetCard—the starter version of a NetJets share—with a starting bid of $95,000. People were beginning to filter through the room, dressed with painstaking expense. An elegant blond woman in her forties, sporting an endless tangle of fat pearls around her throat, bent over the Brian Williams segment, and scribbled in a bid. “Wow,” someone said, near my elbow, “you’d never know there was a recession on.” I looked over: a narrow-faced man, chin and hairline receding in tandem, wearing a stiff oversized tuxedo and standing a good six inches too close. “Well, it’s not official yet,” I pointed out, shifting a step backward. He smiled and motioned to my hands. “Can I get you another drink?” I looked at my glass, which was nearly empty. “No, thanks.” I smiled back. “I think I’m already past my limit.” “Nothing wrong with that.” He grinned. “See anything interesting?” “Nothing I can afford.” I looked over his shoulder, hoping to see someone I knew. Even Banner would make a welcome interruption. He held out his hand. “Mark Oliver.” I took it lightly, hoping he was one of those people who hated limp handshakes. “Hi, Mark. Kate Wilson.” His palm was distinctly moist; I

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snatched my hand back and wrapped it around the base of my champagne flute. “Sounds familiar.” “It’s a common name. I had two other Kate Wilsons in my graduating class.” “Oh, where did you go to college?” “Wisconsin.” Maybe that would scare him off. “A Badger! High five.” His hand went up. “Woo-hoo,” I said, slapping it. Where the freaking hell was Charlie? “Yeah, I went to Yale, myself,” he went on, “but I know a couple guys from Wisconsin. My dentist.” “You know,” I said, “I think I see someone I know over there. Excuse me.” “Later!” he called after me. “See you around!” I walked away slowly, hoping someone familiar would materialize before I reached the end of the room. I was stopped twice by waiters bearing hors d’oeuvres, over which I lingered as long as I could, deliberating between coconut shrimp and Thai-chili spring rolls while the crowd accumulated. “Kate! What’s up?” “Charlie! I am so glad to see you. You have to stay right next to me until the dinner starts. It’s like a singles freak show over there.” “Harsh, man,” he said. “Drink?” “Champagne. But I’m going with you.” Charlie had his shortcomings, but maneuvering around a bar area wasn’t one of them. In less than a minute, he’d secured the drinks and staked us out a prime location that neatly triangulated the bar, the entrance, and the door from which the waiters were streaming with fresh hors d’oeuvres. “Sorry about the soup thing today,” I told him, snatching at a skewer of pepper-crusted ahi tuna. “Alicia sort of kidnapped me to go dress shopping.” “No worries. I ate it myself. Mulligatawny, dude. Awesome.”

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“Well, thanks for the thought, anyway.” “So. Any word from the man?” “The man? Oh, you mean Julian? No, he hasn’t called. I think he’s got some sort of day job. You know, running some money.” “Ouch. Sarc off, man.” He took a drink of microbrew. “So are you bummed?” “Look, Charlie,” I said, “I think you’re under the mistaken impression, like everyone else in this freaking town, that I’ve got some kind of thing going with Julian Laurence. Which is not the case. Hasn’t been, isn’t, won’t be.” “’Cause I heard he was coming here tonight,” Charlie went on placidly. “Who told you that?” “Banner. Says Southfield’s head trader’s wife is on the fund-raiser committee.” Geoff Warwick’s wife. It figured. “Banner’s full of it.” “Shit, Kate. For the last time. Full of shit. Yeah, he is, but even a stopped fucking clock is right twice a day.” He tipped his beer bottle at me. “Julian doesn’t go out much. I would be shocked to see him here tonight. It’s not his thing.” “You seem to know a lot about this guy, considering you don’t have a thing going.” He made quote marks around the word with his fingers. “Look,” I said, exasperated, “why is everyone so obsessed with this? You’re all driving me crazy.” He shook his head. “Kate, the guy’s a billionaire. A living legend.” “No,” I said, “he’s just Julian.” “Oh, come on. Just Julian. If he weren’t rich, you wouldn’t be into him.” “I’m not into him,” I said, not all that convincingly. “And even if I were, it wouldn’t be about the money.” I tried to smile. “Actually, it’s his looks.” “You lie. You so lie.” “You’re wrong.” “Am I?” He shrugged. “Dude, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You chicks

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are lucky. I’ve only got one shot at getting rich, and that’s the hard way. You’ve got two. You can make it or marry it. So go for it. I’m your fucking cheerleader here. Rock on.” “Oh, please. What are you, Jane Austen? Evolve.” “Kate,” he laughed, “life isn’t some college feminist studies seminar. It’s the real world. Human fucking nature. You can’t fight biology.” “I swear to God, Charlie, if he lost every penny of it tomorrow . . .” I stopped. “So you admit you’re into him.” “All right, I kind of like him,” I said, in a hushed voice. “And okay, maybe not every single penny. A roof over his head would be helpful. But a studio apartment, Charlie. That’s all.” “Of course,” Charlie said, “that’s all talk. There’s no way of proving it, short of, like, total fucking catastrophe. Which would give us all a lot more to worry about than getting laid.” He tilted the bottle high and drained the last of his beer. “All right, Kate. Come on. Let’s work this crowd. It’s what we’re here for.” “Do me a favor, though. Please don’t mention the thing from last night.” He held up his knuckles for a fist bump. “Word of honor, dude.”

Dinner was called at eight-thirty, with no sign yet of Julian.

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Sterling Bates occupied two or three tables, sponsored by various divisions, and I recognized a few faces nearby when we sat down at ours. Banner joined us, sitting down directly next to me, and then Alicia, who was already several basis points above the legal limit. “You look fabulous,” said Banner, leaning over my dress to make sure. “Thanks.” I stabbed into my mesclun. “Alicia helped me pick it out.” He turned to her. “Fucking genius, Alicia.” She rolled her eyes and went back to schmoozing the client who sat next to her, a well-larded man in his middle forties with a thick wedding band on his left hand, which he kept twisting around nervously.

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Halfway through the main course, I caught sight of Geoff Warwick past a momentary gap in the crowd. He was about ten tables away, much closer to the podium. Seated next to him was a smug-looking woman with glossy blond hair, presumably the boring wife; she wore a low-cut dress and a spectacular necklace of either emeralds or sapphires. It was hard to tell in the atmospheric lighting. The seat next to her was empty. Julian’s seat. I watched dully as the speakers ascended the podium, making announcements about the silent auction (it was closing in fifteen minutes) and dancing (after the dinner). Then the speeches started: various muckety-mucks, fund-raisers, donors. The evening’s honoree, an aggressive alpha socialite wearing a dress encrusted with Swarovski crystals. “Excuse me,” I said, and rose from the table, taking my clutch with me. I wasn’t sure I was coming back. The bar area wheezed with cigar smoke by now, so I wandered around until I saw a set of open doors leading to a terrace, where the breeze blew in cool and stinking from the Dumpsters out back. The rear elevations of the surrounding buildings rose hideously about me, but I didn’t much care; the glamour of the evening was already spoiled for me. What had I been expecting, really? That Julian had received some telepathic communication of my arrival at the gala, and shown up to sweep me off my feet? What kind of idiot was I? He was a gentleman; of course he had come to my aid in the park. That didn’t mean he had any kind of thing for me. “There you are,” said someone behind me, making my heart thud the instant before I realized it was the wrong voice. I rotated. “Hello. Mike, right?” “Mark.” He beamed me a big grin, apparently encouraged that I’d come within two letters of his first name. “High five,” he said, holding up his hand again. “Sorry. I’m all out.” “That’s all right. I brought some champagne,” he said hopefully, holding it out.

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“Er, thanks.” I took the glass and balanced it carefully on the ledge. “I warn you, there’s some Dumpsters down below, and I don’t think they’ve been emptied lately.” He shrugged. “That’s okay. I have kind of a cold coming on, anyway. Can’t smell a thing.” Lovely. “So,” he plunged on into my silence, “what brings you out here all alone?” “The cigar smoke.” “Yeah, it was getting pretty thick, huh? Some assholes from the Sterling Bates derivatives desk.” “Figures,” I said, under my breath. “So would you like to dance? I think they’re starting up the music.” “Um, thanks for the offer, Mark. But I think I might head home. I have to go to work in the morning.” “Oh, where do you work?” “Sterling Bates.” “No shit. Put my foot in it, didn’t I?” He paused to crack his knuckles. “So would you like to share a cab?” “Um,” I said, “I actually have a friend . . .” “Where is he? I’ll tell him you’re bailing early.” “You know, that’s not necessary. I’ll just go find him myself.” I snatched my clutch from the balustrade, next to the untouched champagne glass. “Have a great evening, Mark.” “Wait.” He grabbed my arm. “Mark,” I said, through my teeth, “I have to go to the ladies’ room.” “Wait a minute,” he repeated, and I could smell his breath now, drenched in Scotch. I yanked my arm away. “Seriously, Mark. I really have to go.” He grabbed again. “No, wait. You have to listen to me.” “No, I don’t.”

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“What is it with you bitches? You only suck the big swinging dicks, huh? What about mine?” “Mark,” I said fiercely, “I’m going to scream in two seconds. Loud. So you’d better let me go. Now.” He lunged forward. I jerked my knee upward into his groin. “Bitch!” he gasped, doubling over. His arm swung out and thumped my gut. This was just not my week. I grabbed the champagne glass and broke it over his head. “There,” I said. “Now go fuck yourself, Mark.” I swept past him and ran to the doors, straight into the well-tailored chest of Julian Laurence. “Kate, my God! What’s wrong?” “Oh, now you show up. I could have used you five minutes ago.” He looked past me to Mark Oliver’s wet groaning figure, flinging champagne droplets over the terrace. He began to laugh. “Oh, I don’t know. Looks as though you had the matter well in hand. Poor little bugger.” A smile lifted the edges of my unwilling mouth. “Well,” I said, “I’m not totally helpless, you know.” “I know.” He took my hand and laced our fingers together. “Come along, then, darling. Let’s get out of here.”

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he damp smoky interior of the Chat d’Or bustled with patrons. British officers, mostly, the tidy gloss of their khaki tunics suggesting Staff; some seated together, talking and laughing; some with women, looking selfconsciously discreet. “You’re quite sure you’re all right?” Julian asked, helping me into a worn ladder-backed chair. Not an elegant establishment, the Chat, but despite its mismatched furniture and fuggy atmosphere and plain dark-beamed plaster ceiling it still clung to a certain provincial respectability. A white linen cloth covered our table in threadbare decency, and the ancient waiters wore black. I smiled. “Yes. I promise. It was only the shock.” “The shock?” “Of seeing you at last.” Something important had occurred to me on the way to the café. I’d fought my way to Amiens circa 1916 in a panic, with no further thought than finding Julian and delivering my warning: an absurd failure of imagination. What had I expected, really? That I could blurt out the truth, and be believed? That Julian would simply say to himself, Well, splendid! Awfully good thing that Cassandra came ’round; I’ll just put up here in Amiens for an extra night and thank my lucky stars? No, arriving here had been the easy part. The greater challenge, I now

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realized, lay before me. I had to gain his trust, to convince him somehow that I wasn’t insane, wasn’t some kind of spy; that my information would save his life. And I had to do it in the next forty-eight hours. So where did that leave me? Well, for one thing—went my epiphany, as I skidded along the cobbles to the Chat d’Or—Julian Ashford loved me. Not now, exactly. But it lay there, latent, inside him: the predisposition to love me, to adore me, to—this was perhaps the most relevant part—desire me to a degree that muddied ordinary masculine reasoning. I could awaken that desire, that love. Just a little, just enough so he would heed me; if I were clever about it, confident he could love me. Be yourself, I thought, watching his mouth, his forehead, the quick movement of his eyes. Be the Kate he loves. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,” he said, returning my gaze with equal thoroughness. “Won’t you at least tell me your name?” “My name is Kate.” “Kate,” he said dubiously, stiffly. “Kate . . .” “Just Kate, for now, if you don’t mind.” The waiter arrived, with steaming plates full of coddled eggs and toast and some sort of meat I couldn’t identify. A heavenly scent rose up from it, warm and buttery and savory, like nothing else I’d smelled since leaving New York. “I thought it was wartime,” I marveled. He made a self-deprecating movement of his shoulders. “The Chat always manages to find ways around the shortages.” “It looks wonderful.” I grasped my cutlery, forgetting everything in the tide of appetite that engulfed me. Julian watched me eat, his long fingers resting on the handles of his knife and fork. A hum of conversation crowded around us, ebbing and flowing in a timeless human rhythm; someone laughed, a loud braying mule of a laugh, at the table next to ours, and Julian lifted his fork at last. “And your journey?” he inquired, picking over his food. “How long was it, exactly?”

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I swallowed a mouthful of silken eggs before replying; it gave me time to produce an answer. “Longer than you can imagine,” I said. “All the way from America, I take it?” “All the way from America.” “And you came to see me? Me in particular?” “Yes,” I said, with emphasis. “You in particular.” “Hmm.” He cut away at his sausage, looking thoughtful, as if he were trying to figure out how to play along. “Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning. How, exactly, do you know me?” “Everyone knows you, Captain Ashford.” “In America?” “Yes. We do read newspapers once in a while, from the comfort of our log cabins. Those of us who can read, of course.” I raised the brimming fork to my mouth and then drew it out again, lingeringly, the way Lauren Bacall might have done, sending him a look from beneath the narrow brim of my hat. Useful things, hats. He looked startled, and then a smile began creeping across his face. “And the rest?” he asked. “Excellent question.” I cocked my head thoughtfully. “There’s so much to do on the frontiers of civilization. Skin a few grizzlies, I guess. Trade tobacco with the natives. Haven’t you read your Cooper?” “My God.” He rested his fork on the side of his plate and beamed. “Who are you?” “Clearly not a well-bred English girl.” “No, thank God. But there’s something else about you; I can’t put my finger on it exactly.” The faint tinge on his cheeks resolved into patches of eager color. I felt my own skin warm in response. “Why thank God ?” I heard myself ask. “I beg your pardon?” “What do you have against well-bred English girls?”

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“I don’t suppose it’s the girls in particular. It’s the entire circus, the . . .” He narrowed his eyes at me. “That was very well done.” “I’ve learned from a master.” “Aren’t you going to tell me anything ?” he begged. “Your last name, even?” “Oh, I certainly can’t tell you that.” I tilted my head, smiling, almost enjoying myself. We were flirting. Good grief. “I promise you I’m not a spy, at least.” He dismissed that. “No, of course you’re not.” “Not even remotely,” I went on. “I wouldn’t know how to begin. I’m a completely unconvincing liar, even after three years on Wall Street.” “Wall Street?” He looked incredulous. “Do you mean stocks and things?” I laughed, a genuine laugh. “Stocks and things! From you, of all people!” I set down my fork and folded my hands under my chin to look at him. “You may think it’s all vulgar and money-grubbing right now, Julian, but I promise you’ll change your mind.” My voice stumbled. I dropped my gaze down to the graceful white curve of the coffee cup in its saucer next to my plate. “I mean, that you would change your mind, if you had the chance,” I finished. He smiled politely. “I daresay I would,” he said, turning back to his breakfast. “But I gather you had a purpose in mind, in seeking me out.” I gathered myself. “Yes, I did. Except I don’t think you’d believe me, if I told you. I’ve been sitting here, trying to think of a way to present it to you, and it just won’t work, will it? It’s just too . . .” I checked myself at weird. Was that in common use yet? Who knew? “Extraordinary,” I said, just to be safe. “You might try me. I’m not quite such a shallow fool as that.” “Shallow fool? You think that’s my opinion of you?” “All that rubbish about empty-headed society girls. About not being capable of comprehending you.” He was leaning forward now, his familiar handsome face drawn into an

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intent expression, almost anxious, trying to prove himself to me. My Julian, only he didn’t know it yet; my own adored Julian, a soldier now, spending most of his days surrounded by mud and blood and sudden random catastrophe. Would that make him more susceptible to accepting my story? Hadn’t I read somewhere that belief in the supernatural tended to thrive during wartime? I caught the gleam of his eyes in the dim electric light, their greenishness heightened by the khaki of his tunic, and felt as if I were toppling from an enormous height. “Tell me,” I said softly, wanting to keep his face angled toward mine. “Do you believe in—what would you call it?—second sight? The ability to see the future?” “A load of rubbish, I suspect,” he said, straightening. I leaned toward him. “Does that mean you really don’t believe in it, or that you don’t want to believe in it?” He picked up his cup and took a drink of coffee. “The second, I suppose.” “Then can’t you just trust me? Trust that I might just know what I’m talking about? That I’ve come all this way, just to try to save you?” “To save me? From what?” He laughed. “From the war, perhaps? I’m afraid there’s not much chance of that.” “Well, no. There’s something else. Something . . .” I couldn’t finish. I could see from his smile, from the careless tone of his voice, that the spell was broken. He thought I was teasing him now, leading him on: that this was all part of the game. “Hmm. Fraught with danger, is it?” I looked down at my empty plate. The scent of eggs and meat still clung to it, and my stomach turned abruptly. “You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you?” He looked blank, as if his tennis opponent had inexplicably withdrawn right after a particularly good volley; then an expression of concern crossed his face. His voice deepened with apprehension. “You’re tired, aren’t you? You’ve finished your breakfast; have you thought about getting some rest?”

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“I can’t. I haven’t found anywhere to stay.” “I’ll help you.” “You don’t need to do that.” “Miss . . . Kate. . . . I don’t mind. Perhaps my landlady can direct you somewhere.” I opened my mouth to object, to say I was perfectly capable of managing on my own, thank you, but at the last instant I realized what he was offering me: an opportunity, a decorous excuse to further things along, to maintain the elegant fiction that this was all about a disinterested concern for my welfare. Because that was how these things used to be done. I said instead. “Do you think so? But surely there’s nothing available on such short notice.” “I’m certain something can be arranged. Look at you, you’re quite done in.” His hand reached out impulsively, nearly touching mine, before it recollected itself and retreated, flexing, to the tablecloth next to his plate. “No, really. I’m fine. It’s just the breakfast, making me sleepy.” He motioned at the waiter. “I’m taking you back. You could . . . you could rest in my room, if you like, while I make inquiries. You shouldn’t be out like this. My God! You’ve gone pale as a sheet!” His alarm was understandable, given the little he knew of me. He was probably desperately afraid of more fainting and vomiting. “I’d hate to be any trouble,” I said. “Come along,” he said, dropping a few coins on the table. “It’s no trouble at all.”

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“Where are we going?” I asked, as Julian led me down the steps. “Somewhere we can talk,” he answered. He walked toward one of the black sedans lining the sidewalk outside the building. The driver jumped out and opened the back door, and Julian stood aside to allow me in first. I sank into the seat and was about to scoot over to make room, when I realized the door had shut and Julian was walking around to the other side. He settled in next to me and glanced at my bare shoulders. “I forgot to ask if you’d brought a coat,” he said apologetically. “No, I didn’t. I’m warm. So where are we going?” I repeated. “Where would you like to go?” “Well, I’m kind of dressed up. The options are limited.” I felt him hesitate, his indecision saturating the dark space between us. “Let me take you home, then,” he said quietly. “You’ve got work tomorrow anyway, I expect.” He leaned forward and murmured my address to the driver, and we pulled away from the curb. “So what brings you here tonight?” I asked, threading my fingers together in my lap. “You. I was trying to reach you all evening.” “Oh!” I remembered. “I forgot to turn my phone back on.” “So I gathered. Then I had an e-mail from your colleague, Mr. Newcombe.” “Charlie e-mailed you?” “About an hour ago. Suggested I put myself in a tuxedo and race to your side.”

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“Oh my God,” I said, my face flooding. “What . . . what did he say?” “Only that you were looking altogether too ravishing to be there by yourself, and attracting a great deal of unwanted attention.” “I’m sure he put it just that well.” “In so many words.” He smiled. “I see he was understating the case, however.” I looked down at my lap, at the fabric falling away in long pale swags from my legs. “That’s not fair, you know. Until last night, I hadn’t had a word from you in months, and now suddenly you’re here with your compliments and your . . . your tuxedo.” I said this accusingly, as though wearing a tuxedo were some sort of crime. Which it probably should have been, on a man like Julian. “What else would you have me wear?” he asked. “That’s not what I meant,” I said, looking back up. The streetlights flashed across his face as we drove up Madison, casting his noble cheekbones in shadow, exposing briefly the limpid expression in his green-blue eyes. I tried to be objective, simply to applaud the flawless tailoring of his black jacket where it melted against his shoulders, or the way the sharp points of his shirt collar gleamed white against his throat, without falling into a kind of drooling admiration. But it was no use. The formality, the austerity, suited him too well. It made the perfect foil for the lush generosity of his face; it made me want to fling myself headlong into the folds of his lapel. “Oh, Kate,” he said. “When you look at me like that . . . those eyes of yours . . .” His eyelids lowered. “I’ve tried so very hard the last few months, to stay away from you. To ignore this . . . this hold you have on me. You can’t imagine what a challenge it’s been. I’ve been reduced to following you like a lapdog as you run through the park.” He raised his eyes to meet mine. “Now you know.” “Oh,” I said, taking it in. “But why?” “Why what?” “Why stay away?” “It’s rather difficult to explain,” he said.

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“Well, try me. I mean, it hasn’t exactly been easy for me, either. Wondering what I did to turn you off like that, so suddenly. You can’t imagine the wild theories going through my head.” He began to laugh, not a jolly laugh. “Nothing so wild as the truth. But let’s leave that aside for the moment . . .” “No. Let’s not. I want to know. I think I have a right to know.” “Kate,” he said, and his voice went soft again. He reached out and fingered the back of my hand. “Please. I’ll tell you, I promise. Just not now. I think . . .” he paused. “I think it might be better if we got to know one another more.” His voice was so charming, so beguiling, that all my sensible objections flew from my head. “But why,” I said, trying to marshal at least a little reason, “is that okay now? When it wasn’t before?” “It isn’t okay. It’s quite wrong. But I’ve gone past the point of caring anymore. I can’t bear to be without you, and I was a perfect idiot to think I could . . .” He checked himself. His hand, which had been running up and down the backs of my fingers, grasped mine and drew it upward, a swift impulsive act, to brush against his lips. I felt tears start against my eyelashes and drew my hand back down. “Well, I’m glad,” I said, voice firm, “because I missed you, too.” “Oh, Kate,” he said, turning away, but he kept my hand in his, sliding his thumb along mine and staring out the window. “Why,” I asked, into the tense air between us, “were you trying to find me?” “Oh, that. I just wanted to let you know that I spoke with Miss Martinez at the Post, and the item tomorrow will be fairly innocuous. I asked her to leave your name out of it, but she pointed out that it was already in the public domain, so . . .” He shrugged. “I’m sorry about that.” “No, you did your best. It’s no big deal, I guess. It’ll blow over. Just a few days of crap from my colleagues, but I can handle that. And thank you,” I added. “You didn’t need to do that.” “It was the least I could do.”

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“Julian, you saved me from a serious beating. Maybe worse. And you set yourself up for a ton of unwanted public attention. So I’m the one who should be making things up to you.” “Christ, Kate!” he burst out. “As if that matters! My God! What if I hadn’t been there last night?” I returned my gaze to my lap and didn’t answer. We turned right on Seventy-ninth Street and ran off the avenues to my apartment building. “Well,” I said, “this is me.” “Yes, it is,” he agreed. The driver got out and held my door open. “Um, would you like to come in? I mean, not come in, come in,” I added quickly. “Just to talk.” A smile grew across his face. “Yes, I’d like that,” he said, and followed me out of the car. He turned to the driver and said a few low words; the man nodded and got back in. “What did you tell him?” I demanded. “Because you’re not staying over, you know. I’m not that easy.” “Of course not.” He looked shocked. “He’s just going to park down the street.” “Good, then. Now I warn you,” I said, as he opened the lobby door for me, “my roommate is a little . . . well, you’ll see what I mean. If she’s home. Which she’s probably not. Hi, Joey.” Joey was on the house phone; his eyebrows went up into his hairline when he saw us. “Good night, Kate,” he mouthed meaningfully, as we walked past the desk. I pressed the elevator call button. The doors opened at once and we stepped inside. “Which floor?” asked Julian. “Seven.” He reached forward and pressed the button. “So,” he observed, as the doors closed, “Joey looked surprised.” “I don’t exactly bring home a lot of men.” “Really?”

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“None, in fact,” I admitted. “I kind of went off dating, after college.” “Oh. And why was that?” “Too many . . . what was that word you used? Rotters.” The doors opened and I led him out of the elevator and down the hall to my apartment door. “We’ll see if Brooke is in,” I said darkly, as I fit my key into the door and opened it. “Sorry. It’s not exactly what you’re used to.” “It’s fine,” he said. “You haven’t even looked inside.” “Well, go on in, then,” he urged. “I’m right behind you.” I crossed the threshold holding my breath, hoping Brooke was running true to form. “Brooke?” I called out. No answer. Thank God. “She’s still out,” I told Julian, turning on the entrance lamp. “That little treat will have to wait until later. So, this is it. Typical Manhattan bachelorette pad. Living room, kitchen area, two bedrooms down the hall. Brooke has the master; it’s her apartment. Her parents’ apartment, I mean. They bought it as her graduation present. I pay rent to her.” He smiled tolerantly at my babbling and walked into the living room, filling the space with his dignity. “And how did you find such a cozy arrangement?” “Craigslist. Sit down. Can I get you something? Water? Coffee? I have one of those French press thingies; it makes a pretty good cup.” “Coffee, then. But let me help you,” he said, and followed me into the tiny kitchen area. “Oh, that’s not necessary,” I protested. The sink was still full of Brooke’s breakfast dishes. Eggs, from the look of the pan. She hadn’t even soaked it, and the remains had dried into an enamel-like hardness. “Sorry about the mess,” I said, turning on the water and filling the sink. “I leave way before my roommate does, and I never know what’s going to greet me when I come in.” “Darling,” he said, “you don’t need to apologize for everything.” “Do I? Apologize?” My ears tingled with delight. Darling again.

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“You do. Now where’s this coffee press of yours?” “Right here,” I said, reaching for it. “No, I’ll get it. Just tell me what to do.” He made the coffee and I did the dishes, laughing and getting in each other’s way, I in my gown and he in his tuxedo, like some sort of bizarre domestic comedy, and somehow the stiffness between us dissolved into familiarity. “So talk,” I said, when we were finally on the sofa, coffee cups in hand. I slipped off my shoes and tucked my feet under my dress. “About what?” he asked, taking a cautious drink of the coffee. An expression of surprised pleasure crossed his face. “You see? It’s not bad,” I said proudly. “A housewarming gift from my brother.” “Tell me about your brother.” “Kyle? Well, he lives back in Wisconsin. He’s still in college, senior year. He’s a great guy. Very into baseball. He’s majoring in accounting.” “You can read accounting here?” He laughed. “Sure you can. We like to take the arts out of liberal arts, here in America.” “Are you close? You and your brother?” I thought about that for a second. “About average. I mean, I don’t spill my guts to him, but I know he’d be there if I needed him. We e-mail a lot. He keeps hoping I’ll run into some Yankees hotshot and get an autograph for him.” He smiled, fingered his coffee cup. “And your parents?” “The usual.” I shrugged. “I don’t know what to say, really. They’re just parents. Dad’s in insurance. Mom used to be a teacher. She still subs sometimes, during the cold and flu season, when they’re short.” I took a drink of coffee. “She likes to read and garden. Pretty typical stuff.” “You’re fortunate.” “What about your parents? What were they like?” “My parents.” He looked at me sideways and lifted the cup to his mouth. “I’m not sure I can explain this properly.”

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“Secret agents, huh? You’re the hidden love child of Bond and Moneypenny?” He choked on his coffee. “Bloody hell. Was it that obvious?” “I took a DNA sample. Look,” I said, setting down my coffee cup with an abrupt thrust. “Do you mind if I change?” “I do,” he told me solemnly. “I rather like that frock. But go on. I imagine it’s rather more pleasure for me to watch than for you to wear.” “Something like that. I’ll be right back.” “I’ll be waiting,” he said. I fled down the short hallway to my bedroom. I wanted to change, it was true. The dress wasn’t exactly comfortable. But the more pressing imperative was that, after all the champagne and excitement, my bladder was about to explode. I twisted myself into a pretzel, unzipping my dress, and slipped on a bra and my usual evening uniform of tank top and yoga pants and cardigan; then I went to the bathroom and started in surprise at the reflection in the mirror. I looked possessed. My skin glowed with color; my drab gray eyes burned almost silver. I pulled out the pins from my hair and shook it free, and then found an elastic to twist the waving strands out of my face. He was standing up when I came back, looking at the photographs on the windowsill. “That’s me with my best friends,” I said. “Michelle and Samantha. We went through Europe the summer after college. I think that was Paris.” “Yes, Paris,” he said softly. He turned around and looked at me. “Now I feel rather ridiculous,” he complained. “You can loosen your tie,” I pointed out. “I wasn’t brought up to loosen my tie,” he said, but he untied the bow anyway and released the top button of his shirt, drawing apart the pointed triangles of his dress collar. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and drew out an envelope. “For you.” “What’s this?”

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“I arrived just before the silent auction closed,” he said. “I felt I owed you something more than a simple apology, for my behavior last Christmas.” “You don’t owe me anything.” I eyed the envelope suspiciously. “And it had better not be that thing with Brian Williams, either, because I don’t do live TV.” He laughed. “It’s not. Open it.” I took it from him and ran my finger under the flap. “Oh no,” I said, feeling the blood drain downward from my face. “Oh, no you don’t. You are not, repeat not, going to give me a freaking airplane share !” “I already have.” “Julian, the bid was . . . I don’t even want to say it! I mean, way, way too much.” “It was a charitable donation,” he said. “That’s not the point. You can’t just give me stuff like this.” “Why not?” “Because I’m not that kind of girl,” I bit out, thrusting the thing back in his hands. He flinched in horror. “I didn’t mean it like that! I’m not expecting . . .” “No, it’s not that. I know you’re not . . . that it’s not . . . But you see,” I tried to explain, past the heat building once more under the skin of my face, “it’s kind of the elephant in the room, isn’t it?” “Elephant?” “Oh please. Who you are, Julian. Your . . . um . . . your . . .” I looked down at my fingers, picking anxiously at one another. Your money. The m-word. Just say it. But instead I only sighed: “Let’s sit down. We might as well get this over with.” “Get what over with?” “This.” I sank into the sofa, girding myself. “Ground rule one: you are not allowed to buy me expensive gifts.” “Define expensive.” He dropped down next to me and folded his arms.

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“Well,” I said, “it’s kind of like pornography. You know it when you see it. And this is definitely too expensive. Way, way, way.” I peered at his face, which had settled into a pensive frown. “Look, flowers are nice. I love dark chocolate. Maybe even the day spa. But nothing I couldn’t afford to buy myself. Nothing I couldn’t reciprocate.” “But it’s useful,” he protested, holding up the envelope. “Julian, be serious. I mean, don’t you worry . . .” “What?” he pressed. “That I’m just a gold digger.” “Of course not.” “Why not?” “Darling,” he said, “believe me, I know the difference. I’ve had a bloody sign hanging around my neck from the time I was born.” “Well, but maybe I am a gold digger.” I drew up my legs against my chest. “Because it’s part of who you are. Don’t you see? I have to prove to myself that it isn’t true, that I don’t care about your millions. Or billions. Whatever it is. Don’t tell me!” I held up one hand. “I don’t want to know. Look, how do I explain this? I never wanted to be Cinderella. Never wanted to be that girl, the one looking for a rich guy to drape her with diamonds. I always wanted to make it on my own, and it scares me that . . . that from the moment I met you, I felt this . . . this connection. And I didn’t even know you. So maybe it is the money. Maybe I really am that girl. Charlie said something today . . .” “Charlie,” he said crossly. “No, but he made me think. Because obviously we can’t separate you— Julian—from what you are. You’re a very successful man, and I’m a woman, and maybe I’m just programmed to respond to that. Millions of years of evolution.” He lifted one of his long angled eyebrows. “And that’s all? There’s nothing else to like about me?” “No! No, of course not. You’re . . .” I stopped, feeling the blush rise up. “Well, I’m not going to sit here and list it all. But yes. I mean, you don’t

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lack for attractive qualities. Obviously.” A pause. “You’re gentlemanly, for example. I like that a lot.” “Thank you.” He seemed amused. “Or maybe it’s your looks, which makes me even more shallow.” “Kate.” He sighed, reached out his hand to touch my fingers. “You’re overthinking this.” “Well, I have a tendency to do that.” “Then let me apply a little logic for you. By the very nature of your job, you’re in daily contact with any number of wealthy men. One or two of them have surely worked up the courage to ask you out by now. Am I right?” “One or two,” I admitted. “And did you accept any of them?” “No.” “Paul Banner, for example. He must be worth a fair amount.” “Oh, blech!” “You see? So please allow me to flatter myself that this sweet blush of yours,” he said, brushing my cheek with his finger, “might perhaps be due to some genuine feeling for me. Which I shall do my best to deserve.” He paused. “Now, that’s a rather cynical expression, crossing your face just now. Don’t you trust me?” “Well, no. I really don’t know what’s going on here, to be honest. Why you disappeared on me, and why you’re back. And then why you even began with me at all. You should be out partying with models and actresses, not drinking coffee with nerdy investment bankers.” “Oh, for God’s sake. Do you really think so little of me? Of yourself ?” “No. I know my own worth. But it’s not the kind of thing that inspires instant attraction, is it? Especially to a man who’s spoiled for choice.” He lifted the coffee cup to his lips, covering a smile. “Spoiled for choice, am I?” “Oh, please. You’re like catnip, Julian.” A caustic laugh. “Not if one keeps clear of the cats.” “Well, maybe I’m one of them. How would you know?”

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He flashed me a teasing under-look from across the rim of his cup. “Perhaps I’ve been studying up. Perhaps I know all about you.” My head snapped up. “What ? Do you?” The amusement vanished He regarded me steadily, soberly, faint lines gathering about the corners of his eyes. This time I recognized it, that comprehensive gaze of his: picking apart, one by one, the seams that held me together. “I have,” he said, setting down the cup, “been guilty, on rare occasion, of placing myself where I hoped I might perhaps catch a glimpse of you.” “Like last night?” “A perfect evening for a run; I thought you might feel the same. I never meant to follow you, but it was growing dark . . .” He glanced away. “I was concerned for you.” I watched him for a moment, the side of his face visible in the lamplight: the clean beauty of it, drawn in effortless strokes by some unseen expert hand; the faint blush still staining the skin of his cheek, exactly as I remembered. “I just can’t figure you out,” I said at last. He looked back at me, eyes alive. “Can’t you?” “That’s why it was so hard, when you cut me off. Because I’d thought better of you. Because when I walked into your house at Christmastime, it all felt so familiar. Like I knew you, knew all about you. Maybe not the details, but the essentials. You were different and interesting and . . . and . . . right. It was so right.” I bent my head into my knees, to block the sight of his face. “And then you just left. You repudiated it.” “Kate,” he whispered, “I’ve many faults, God knows, but I never meant to trifle with you. Not the least of my . . . my distress, these past months, was the fear that I’d hurt you. What you must think of me.” I didn’t reply. “Kate, look at me.” “I can’t,” I said, my voice muffled against my knees. “I can’t think clearly when you’re looking at me like that. I haven’t even gone on a date in three years, Julian. I have zero immunity.”

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“Well, it’s been jolly longer than that for me. So if I can be brave, so can you.” I felt his hand on my chin, lifting my head. His face was closer than I expected, aglow as I was, the color high in his cheeks. “I wish I could promise you I won’t hurt you again,” he said. “But there are . . . circumstances . . . I can’t explain to you, at the moment. And so the only thing I can promise you is that the feelings I have for you are very real indeed. I’ve known them for longer than you realize. And to those I can and shall be faithful, without fail. Do you understand me?” I nodded, mesmerized. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Oh, look at you, darling. Staring into me with those great silver eyes of yours, reading my soul. I shouldn’t be here with you, the most reckless self-indulgence, and yet I can’t seem to bloody well help it anymore.” He stopped and looked down. “And I can’t forgive myself for that,” he murmured, as if to himself; then he looked back up, holding my eyes, and said fiercely, “But I can at least give this to you, Kate: There is no one else for me. There will be no one else.” It was impossible to doubt him, impossible even to look away. I sat there in silence, returning his gaze with bemused fascination. “But you hardly know me,” I said at last. “Yes, I do.” I gestured to myself. “And I’m not exactly trophy material, either. You really should wait with all your fancy promises until you’ve actually seen the merchandise.” “I believe I’ve got the general idea.” A knowing little smile curled his mouth, not gentlemanly at all. “That damned alluring frock of yours.” I laughed, surprising myself. “You should have seen the one Alicia picked out. Talk about having a sign around your neck.” “And it’s such a lovely neck.” His right hand lifted, trembling and then fell back into his lap. “It’s all right. I don’t mind.” I reached out bravely and took his hand and placed it, palm down, between my own. It was broad and capable,

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lightly callused, with long elegant fingers and neatly trimmed nails. A few downy golden hairs grew up from the back; I whorled them gently with my fingertip. “You must play the piano for me sometime,” I told him. “I shall,” he promised. “Where were you hurt?” I cleared my throat and nudged back the sleeve of his tuxedo, exposing his wrist. He wore simple gold cufflinks. “May I?” I asked, fingering one. He nodded. Carefully I drew the cufflink out of its hole and set it on the coffee table. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I said, looking back up at his face. “You won’t,” he said. “It’s long healed.” I drew the sleeve back, almost to his elbow, and took in my breath. A long irregular scar ran the length of his forearm, gouging deeply in the middle. “Oh my God,” I said. “What happened?” “Glass,” he said, “from the windshield.” “But it’s so . . . jagged!” I ran my finger down the long thick path, lined on either side by white pinpricks from the stitches, and my eyes filled with tears. “Don’t,” he said tenderly, reaching up with the other hand to the back of my head, his head bent forward, his forehead nearly touching mine. “It happened so long ago.” I looked back up. “Please don’t do this again.” “That’s not likely.” “I can’t even stand to think about it. Just . . . the pain . . .” “Well,” he admitted, “it bled like billy-o.” His left hand still rested on the back of my head, fiddling with the strands of my hair. I lifted the other one to my cheek. He caressed the line of my cheekbone, the length of my jaw; his finger curved around my ear before drawing down the side of my neck, his eyes following the movement, examining every detail of my skin, my shape. “How terribly long I’ve wanted,” he said, “to do just that.” I was splintering inside, absolutely shattered. He held me in the palm of his hand. I let my feet slip back down to the floor and lifted my hand

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up to his face. His brow creased, as if he were under some kind of strain. I ran my fingers along the lines, smoothing them. “It’s not fair,” I said. “You’re so beautiful.” “Well,” he told me, looking saddened, “it’s yours, for what it is.” He turned his head to kiss my palm, and then his hands moved to cradle my face. His thumb brushed against my lips, parting them fractionally, inquiring. I snapped my mouth shut and pulled away. “What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Coffee breath,” I said, though my clenched lips. He ducked his head and let out a despairing laugh. “Kate, haven’t I been drinking the coffee, too?” “Oh, but it won’t affect you at all, will it?” I said bitterly. “You’re Julian Laurence, and you’re not subject to the same rules as normal human beings. I’m sure your breath will be all sweet and limpid, no matter how much coffee is in there, and I’ll taste like the inside of a Starbucks. A stale Starbucks.” “Come here,” he said, pulling me into his arms, shaking with laughter. “This is what I adore about you, Kate. There’s no one like you. From the first moment . . .” His arms tightened around me. “I want you exactly like this. I want never to let you go.” He leaned back against the arm of the sofa, drawing me with him until I rested luxuriously upon the breadth of his chest, the satin weave of his tuxedo jacket cooling my cheek. “Heaven,” I whispered, feeling his fingers travel up and down my spine. We lay there quietly a moment. I could hear his heart beat steadily next to my ear, a strong slow athletic pulse. The buzzer rang. I jumped up, startled. “What’s that?” Julian asked. “No idea,” I said, checking the clock. Eleven-thirty. “I mean, it’s Joey downstairs, but Brooke should have her key. Or maybe he’s just trying to warn us . . .” I went over to the intercom and pressed the talk button. “Hello?”

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“Kate. It’s Joey. You have a visitor.” His voice sounded constrained. “Who is it?” “I’ve sent her up already. Just giving you the heads-up.” I heard him laugh, and then cut off. Her? I put my hand on my forehead and slumped against the wall. Julian got up. “What is it? Your roommate?” “Worse,” I groaned. “It’s my mother.”

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“Hi, Mom,” I said, opening the door. “I didn’t realize you were coming.” “Honey, I was worried sick! You didn’t answer your phone.” “Oh, yeah. I guess it’s still turned off.” I kissed her cheek and gave her a hug. “Uh, Mom . . .” It was too late. She was already brushing past me into the living room, and stopped dead. Julian stepped forward. Don’t worry, he’d reassured me a second ago. Mothers love me. “Good evening, Mrs. Wilson,” he said, in that lyric voice of his. “What a very great pleasure.” She just stared at him: at his face, his frame, the immense gravity of his presence; at his tuxedo, with its curving black bow tie hanging guiltily on either side of his unbuttoned collar. I cleared my throat. “Um, Mom,” I said, “this is my friend Julian. Julian Laurence.” “Oh,” she said hoarsely. Julian smiled his radiant smile and held out his hand. “You flew in tonight, I expect?” he inquired. She placed her hand in his and allowed him to shake it. “Yes,” she said. “I was so worried about Kate. I told her, when she moved to New York . . .” “Mom, I told you I’m fine. It was a completely freak thing.” “I suppose,” she said slowly, not taking her eyes off Julian, “I have a lot to thank you for, young man.” I winced. Young man. For God’s sake. He shrugged. “It was nothing, I assure you,” he said. “Kate’s a supremely

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capable young woman.” Then he unfolded his Saturday night special, that wide private beautiful smile, the lady slayer. Mom was slayed. I watched her face soften and melt, like butter left out in the sun, and turned to roll my eyes at Julian. “Come on, Mom. There’s still a little coffee left. Where’s your bag?” “Oh,” she said, “that nice young fellow downstairs is bringing it up.” “You mean Joey?” “Is that his name?” “You must sit down, Mrs. Wilson,” Julian said, motioning her to the sofa. “I imagine you’re exhausted. When did your flight arrive?” “Ten-thirty,” she told him. “I’ll just fetch you a cup.” He shot me a reproving look. I folded my arms. “Coffee mugs are in the cabinet to the right of the sink,” I called to him, as he disappeared around the corner of the kitchen area. Mom looked at me with wide eyes. Wow, she mouthed. “Yeah, I know,” I mumbled. The doorbell rang. Joey. I went to the door and opened it. “Here you go, Kate.” He smirked. “Everything okay?” “Just fine, Joey. Just fine. Thanks.” I took the suitcase from him. Mom had finally entered the modern age and bought a black wheelie bag to replace her old hard-sided Samsonite, circa 1962. Like everyone else, she had fastened a rainbow-striped cord around the middle so she could tell it apart on the carousel. I dragged it into the living room, where Julian was presenting my mom with a mug of coffee. “It was a bit lukewarm,” he explained, “so I put it in the microwave. Is it too hot?” “Oh, just fine. Just . . . just fine.” She looked between the two of us, back and forth. “So,” she continued, “were you two kids having a good time?” I glared at her full force before replying. “Great. We were at a charity thing in midtown. Julian gave me a ride home.”

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“And really,” he said, checking his watch, “I ought to be going. I daresay you and your mother wouldn’t mind a little sleep.” Mom drew a deep breath. “Don’t let me chase you away, Julian, if you were planning to stay over. I always bed down here, right on the good old sofa sleeper.” She patted it for emphasis. “It’s very comfortable.” Kill me now. “You’re too kind, Mrs. Wilson,” Julian said, only a slight waver in his voice. “But I really must be going. I’ve got to be at work early tomorrow. Still, I’m delighted to have met you.” He smiled at me. “You’ve raised an extraordinary daughter.” “Really, you don’t need to go,” she insisted. “Mom,” I said. “He wants to go. I want him to go. It’s not what you’re thinking.” “Oh.” She looked back and forth between us again. “Well, then. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Laurence. I’m glad my little girl has someone to look out for her.” He opened his mouth to make some no doubt sensationally witty reply, but I cut him off with a brisk, “I’ll walk you to the elevator, Julian.” “Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly, and winked at my mother. She winked right back. I took Julian by the arm and dragged him to the door. “And no peeking,” I threw over my shoulder, as I hauled him out. The elevator was just around the corner. I pressed the button and turned around to look at him, folding my arms over my chest. He smiled and reached out and drew me up against him. “Do you really want me to go?” he murmured in my ear. “At this exact moment, yes,” I said, pushing aside the swirling mist that seemed to addle my brain whenever he touched me. A low little chuckle. “When can I see you again?” “Call my assistant. She keeps my diary.” “Kate.” He chuckled again. “I’ll surprise you, then.”

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The elevator clanged nearer, and I unfolded my arms and wrapped them around his waist. “I can’t wait.” The bell dinged. I drew back and looked up to find him watching me intently. He leaned down and brushed my lips with his own. “Neither can I,” he said, and stepped into the elevator just as the doors began to close.

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the single most embarrassing moment of my entire life. Forget the day I wet my pants in first grade. Forget the time I screwed up my solo at the jazz choir concert. I mean, Oh. My. God. Why did you say that?” “Say what?” She had risen from the sofa and was now busy cleaning up the rest of the kitchen with her usual air of impeccable moral advantage. “Oh, you know. Don’t let me chase you away, Julian, if you wanted to stay over,” I said, in falsetto. “I mean, we haven’t even had a real date yet. We haven’t even . . .” She looked up. “Haven’t even what, honey?” “Kissed,” I mumbled. “Didn’t he kiss you good night just now?” I glared at her. “I thought I told you not to peek.” “Oh, honey,” she laughed, “I didn’t need to peek to know that !” “Well,” I said, “it wasn’t a real kiss. So just take that smirk off your face. I mean, for God’s sake, you’re my mother! You’re not supposed to sanction sex ! Under the same roof ! I mean, eww ! This room shares a wall with mine!” “Well, in my home, I wouldn’t. If you bring him for a visit, he’ll have his own room. But this is your place, honey. You can do what you like.” “And you wouldn’t mind ?” “I would probably put a pillow over my head,” she admitted, giving the counter a last swipe with the sponge and wringing it out over the sink. “But he’s awfully good-looking, you know.” “Yes, Mom. I know.” “And he seemed quite taken with you.”

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“Well, I guess I hope so.” I dropped onto the sofa and looked up at her. She had left the kitchen area and was wheeling her suitcase from the center of the room to the wall. “He’s kind of an amazing guy, Mom.” “He looks it, honey.” She paused. “He’s the man from the park, right?” “Um, yeah.” “My goodness,” she said, sitting down next to me. “How did you meet him?” “Business meeting.” “I guess that’s how these things work, these days.” She straightened her watch, aligning it exactly with the base of her hand. “So is he really . . . what Mary Alice said?” “Pretty much.” I stared at the plain white envelope on the coffee table. “How do you feel about that?” “What do you mean, how do I feel?” I snapped. “I’ve met a lot of rich guys in the past few years. What’s the big deal?” She said nothing. A patient woman, my mother. I gave in. “All right. Sorry. I know what you meant. Yes, okay, it’s weird. But he’s not like most of them. He’s not flashy. The money’s just a fact to him, not—I don’t know—some essential part of his ego. Kind of refreshing.” “He has one of those hedge funds, doesn’t he?” Almost like she knew what a hedge fund was. “Yeah. A big one. But six years ago it was nothing. He did it all himself.” “He comes from money, though.” “I’m not sure,” I said. “He hasn’t told me much about that. But yeah, I think so. How did you know?” “Oh, honey. You can just tell.” She chuckled suddenly. “What is it?” “I shouldn’t tell you this. You’ll kill me.” “What?” “Well, he kind of reminds me of my father, a little.” “Poppa! Oh, Mom! How could you say that? Poppa?”

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She laughed. “I knew you’d kill me. But it’s true. It’s his manners, you know. He’s very formal. Old-fashioned, I guess. He’s been well brought up. Does he open the door for you?” “Yes,” I said. “Well, there you are. Keep him.” Like it was that easy. “All right, Mom.” I patted her knee. “Let’s get up and put this bed together. How long are you staying, by the way?” “I’ve got a flight back on Sunday morning. It was much cheaper with the Saturday night layover.” We pulled the sleeper out and made up the bed, and then took turns in the bathroom. “I’ll leave a note for Brooke on the door, so she doesn’t wake you up,” I said. “That roommate of yours.” She shook her head. “I know, I know. Good night.” I kissed her on the cheek. “Good night, honey.” I wrote the note and taped it on the door and got into bed, where I lay awake for a long time, listening to my heart trip restlessly against my ribs, telling myself it was just the coffee.

Frank, the morning doorman, met me right off the elevator at six-

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thirty the next day. “You have a visitor,” he told me, grinning widely and waggling his eyebrows. “I was about to call up.” My heart jumped into my sinuses. I peered past the front desk into the lobby. Julian stood there, impossibly radiant, a white paper bag in one hand. I skipped up. “Good morning,” I said. “Good morning.” He dropped a glancing kiss on my lips and took my laptop from my shoulder. “I thought I’d drive you to work today.” “But I’m not on your way,” I pointed out. “If you were, it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.” He led me outside, where a sleek dark-green machine perched eagerly

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by the curb, and opened the passenger door for me. I ducked in and settled myself into the leather, into the cocoon of dials and lights and dormant energy. The door opened on the other side, and Julian climbed in and threw the engine in gear. “Nice car,” I said, grabbing hold of my seat as we thrust forward. “A recent acquisition. I was rather afraid you might disapprove.” “It beats the 6 train. What’s in the bag?” “Bagels. That doesn’t violate the rules, does it?” “Depends on where you got the bagels.” I opened the bag. At least half a dozen shiny plump bagels rested inside, still warm, the yeasty smell rising like heaven into my nose. “I wasn’t sure which flavor you liked,” he explained, “so I got them all.” I picked out a blueberry and bit in. “Lovely. Which one would you like?” “Oh, the blueberry, I suppose.” “Too late. Cinnamon raisin?” I handed it to him. We rode in silence for a few minutes, pecking at our bagels. He was a quiet driver, working his way through the crawling grid with a minimum of turns and lane changes, anticipating the traffic around him. In a few minutes we were accelerating smoothly onto the FDR, and I tilted my head at last to take him in, to admire his crisp handsome profile etched against the morning sun. “So how did you sleep?” I asked. “Dreadfully. I missed you. And you?” “Pretty well, actually. Very nice dreams.” He glanced sideways at me and smiled. “What about?” “Sorry. That’s between me and my subconscious.” I paused. “How did you know I was leaving for work early today?” “Oh, I didn’t.” He checked the mirror and eased into the far left lane. “I was going to have Joey ring you up.” “Frank,” I corrected him. “Joey’s the evening doorman. What if I’d been in bed?”

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“I’d have rousted you out, of course. I’m usually in before seven, myself.” I looked at the clock on the dashboard. “Then I’m making you late.” “Geoff can hold down the fort for once.” “When I think of all the trades you’ll be missing . . .” He laughed. “Don’t worry about it. The markets will survive without me. I, however, cannot possibly survive without you.” I couldn’t think of anything to say to that. He glanced at me. “Everything all right?” “Yes,” I said. “I just can’t quite believe this is happening.” “This?” “You. Me. This. I’ve never felt this way. As though I know you perfectly, but not at all. And then you say ridiculous things like that, when we haven’t even . . .” “Haven’t what?” “You know.” I felt the blush climb relentlessly in my cheeks. “Even kissed.” A chuckle. “Well, and whose bloody fault is that? Coffee breath, for God’s sake. Little minx. Anyway, I did kiss you last night. And this morning.” “That’s not what I mean.” He fell silent for a few seconds, and then the car swerved across three lines of traffic into the exit lane and slammed to a halt. “What are you doing?” I yelled, gripping my seat. SUVs and delivery trucks zoomed past us, horns howling in outrage. “Kissing you,” he replied, and he took my face in his large long-fingered hands and bent his lips into mine. Oh God finally a gentle clasp, warm and lush and generous, cinnamonraisin and something else, something so indescribably savory oh God I wanted more of it, but he held it all in check, the most exquisite selfcontrol: not at all like a first kiss, nothing awkward, perfectly knowing, the tip of his velvet tongue just grazing mine oh God the sensation snaking through me like a live current. His hands held my head tenderly in place,

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his fingertips worked through the fine hair at my temples. An odd sensation began to build behind my eyes and through my torso, as if I were lighter than air, tethered to myself only by the hold of Julian’s hands and lips. I slipped my fingers under his suit jacket, clutching at the reality of his flesh through the thin layers of shirt and undershirt. “Kate,” he growled, into my lips, shifting his body urgently, and I wrapped my other arm around him, nearly climbing out of my seat with a desperate need to connect with him. He stopped then, breathing hard against the thin skin of my collarbone, his hands still clasping my cheeks, the scent of his hair warm in my nose. “Wow,” I said. I could hear my own pulse, rapid and shocked. “Practice much?” He raised his head and looked at me, his face only inches away. “Not at all.” “Then you must have really good instincts,” I said, running my thumb along the curve of his bottom lip. He closed his eyes and pressed a kiss against it. The blare of a tractor-trailer horn tore violently through the charged air around us. “Oh my God,” I screeched. “We’re going to get killed!” He drew away with a laugh and a last caress to the side of my face. “You asked for a kiss.” “I didn’t mean at that exact second !” I twisted around to see a wave of vehicles bearing down on us. “I don’t know.” His hand went down to the gearshift. “I thought it was worth it.” With a quick glance in the rearview mirror he released the clutch, sending us hurtling down the shoulder and merging back into traffic as if nothing at all had happened, as if the promising theory between us had not just been transformed into solid fact, as if we were not now different people from the ones who had climbed into the car half an hour ago. We got off at the Brooklyn Bridge exit and wove through the narrow

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half-clogged canyons to Wall Street, pulling up in front of the Sterling Bates building with a theatrical roar of the engine. “So what kind of car is this, actually?” I asked. “Maserati,” he said, grinning. “And I just finished telling my mom you aren’t flashy.” A wink. “A chap’s got a right to a little fun once in a while, after all.” He got out of the car and went around to my side, opening my door while I was still gathering up my things. I started to haul myself upward and found his hand under my elbow. “Thanks,” I said shyly, rearranging myself. “Of course.” He just stood there, studying me. His grin had dimmed into something more wistful than happy. I realized I was staring at his mouth and cleared my throat. “You know,” I said, fingering the strap of my laptop bag, “we haven’t gone on a real date yet, either.” “Pick you up at eight, then?” “Sorry,” I said. “My mom doesn’t leave until Sunday morning.” “Then she can join us.” I snorted. “Julian, honestly, I don’t think even Dante could have imagined anything worse than that idea. Try again.” “Sunday afternoon?” “Um, sorry. Ballet class.” I ducked my head, adding sheepishly, “I can’t miss another one or they’ll kick me out.” “Ballet? I’d no idea. When does it wrap up?” “Half past six.” “I’ll pick you up.” His smile widened then, and he reached over to tuck back a strand of hair that had fallen free from my elastic. “Have a good day, darling.” I took my laptop bag from him. “You too,” I said, and hurried across the Sterling Bates plaza before he could tempt me into some embarrassing public display. From behind, I heard the distant thoroughbred roar of the Maserati, chasing me into the building.

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Julian’s kiss burned like a neon sign on my lips as I made my way through security and up the elevator to my floor. The financial world is a perfectly evolved mechanism for the rapid transmission of information, and nothing on Wall Street travels faster than salacious gossip; by now just about everyone in the firm, if not the whole freaking city, would know I’d left the MoMA benefit last night in the company of Julian Laurence. Distracted by a jumble of self-conscious reflections, I’d reached the relative sanctuary of my cubicle and flipped open my laptop before I realized I hadn’t even picked up my morning coffee. Mercifully, the Starbucks line hadn’t yet approached its morning zenith. In under six minutes I was swinging back around the corner of my desk, nerves still crackling, and nearly plopped myself into the middle of Alicia Boxer’s lap. “Alicia!” I exclaimed. She jumped up from my chair. “Oh, Kate! Sorry. I was just looking for a file.” My voice turned to ice. “I keep everything on the server.” “I know.” She smiled apologetically. “I couldn’t find it, though, so I thought I’d just check your hard drive.” I looked at my laptop screen. “What file are you talking about?” “The offering memo for that convertible deal we’re working on.” “It’s on the server. Under Clients.” “Oh, Clients,” she said, as though it were a revelation. She looked haggard, with bags under her eyes the size and color of prunes, and her hair lying lank below her ears. Considering how wasted she’d been the night before, though, I was amazed just to see her at this hour. “I thought you’d keep it in your personal folder until it was done.” “I finished it yesterday, before I left.” “Wow! You’re efficient. How did things go last night, by the way? I heard you left with Julian Laurence. I didn’t even see him there.”

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“We kind of bumped into each other outside.” “Very sly! I like it. Nice Page Six mention, by the way. Popped your cherry, huh? Now you’re really someone in this town.” “God forbid,” I said. “Do you mind? I’ve got a lot to do. I’m trying to get out of here by eight tonight.” “Hmm. I smell a hot date. Let me close that window for you.” She reached out and clicked, and the blank desktop appeared. “Okay. All yours. Clients folder, you said?” “Yeah.” “Got it. See you later.” I sat down in my seat, feeling her warmth there with a trace of revulsion. What the hell had that been about? Why was she snooping on my laptop? Looking to feed her gossip habit? “Charlie,” I said, two hours later, when he staggered in and collapsed in the cubicle next to me, “is there some kind of log I can access on the computer, showing me what stuff ’s been opened lately?” “Yeah, pretty sure,” he said, taking a drink from a coffee cup and closing his eyes in pain, “but you’ll have to ask one of the tech guys. You don’t have any Advil on you, do you? Mine was fucking expired. Whatever that means.” “I think so.” I reached for my bag and dug in. I usually kept a small bottle for emergencies. “Thanks.” He tossed down three gelcaps with another drink of coffee. “Don’t OD,” I said, “or if you do, don’t sue me.” “Yeah, whatever, dude. So have you seen the Post ?” “Not yet.” “Come on, dude. Log on.” I’d been avoiding it all morning; I was trying to convince myself that if I didn’t read it, it didn’t exist. “All right,” I muttered, flipping to the Post on my bookmarks list. I clicked on Page Six. 1S R 1L

HEDGE FUND HERO. Gotham’s money-managing titans aren’t usually known for their chivalry, but Southfield Associates honcho Julian

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Laurence gallantly played against type Wednesday night, flashing his knight-errant creds to one lucky damsel in distress. According to police reports posted on The Smoking Gun, the hunky hedgie, who tops many insiders’ eligible bachelor lists, came to the aid of 25-year-old investment banker Kate Wilson when she was confronted in Central Park while jogging, not far from the site of the infamous 1989 attack that made headlines worldwide. British-born Laurence helped restrain the unnamed thug until police arrived to take him in custody, and was back at work the next morning running his $20 billion fund. I let my breath out in relief. “Oh. That’s not so bad.” “No shit. You’re a boldface now. Congrats.” I handed him the white paper bag over the cubicle wall. “Here. Have a bagel. They’re good for hangovers.” “Thanks, dude. Mmm, onion. You rock.” He paused to nibble carefully at the bagel. “So have you heard the rumor?” “Which one?” “They had a steering committee meeting early this morning. Traders are saying someone’s got some massive position we’ve got to unload.” “How massive?” “I don’t know. But it was enough to call a meeting on a Friday morning.” He shut his eyes again and stared up at the ceiling. “Hope it doesn’t blow up until after we’re gone. I need my last paycheck for fucking bschool tuition.” “What’s the trade?” I asked. “Who knows. Some kind of fucked-up derivative, probably.” He paused, drummed his fingertips on his armrest. “I also hear,” he went on slowly, “they’re all pissing blood about trading volumes with Southfield.” “Southfield?” I frowned. “Where did you hear that?” “Couple of traders last night. Your boy Laurence have anything to say about it?” “Why does everyone think Julian tells me his trading secrets?”

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“Okay, dude. Calm down. I get it. No shop talk over the pillow.” “There’s no pillow involved, Charlie. Not all of us are as slutty as you are.” “Wow. Touché.” He sounded appreciative. I pursed my lips and stared at my computer screen. “So are they up or down? Trading volumes, I mean.” “Up, dude. Way up.” He snickered. “Some fucking coincidence, huh?” “Go to hell, Charlie.” “Ugh. I’m already fucking there, Kate.” I gave him a moment’s peace before speaking up. “So, I have a question for you.” “Another one? Shit, Kate. Can’t you just figure stuff out on your own this morning? I’ve got a massive fucking hangover.” “I just want to know why you sent that e-mail to Julian last night.” His grinning skull rolled sideways to take me in. “’Cause I was fucking sick of that lost-puppy look on your face, that’s why. I told you, dude. You need to strap on a pair of fucking balls.”

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omeone was in the room with me, rustling conscientiously: the repressed stir of someone trying to be quiet. I opened my eyes. “Julian? Captain Ashford?” “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.” He emerged from some corner of the room, looking anxious. “Only adding a bit of coal; it’s gone frightfully chilly. How are you feeling?” I sat up, letting the blanket slide down to my lap. I’d left the lamp on, not wanting to settle too deeply to sleep, and the dim glow made everything look old and weary: the low ceiling, nearly grazing Julian’s head; the rusty brown water stain in the corner by the window, creeping lazily over the aging wallpaper; the small cast-iron fireplace with its tarnished scuttle. A small room; though Julian stood politely by the mantel, as far from the bed as he could manage without catching himself on fire, he was no more than eight intimate feet away. “Much better, thank you. I’m sorry to be so much trouble.” “Don’t be ridiculous.” He paused self-consciously. How handsome and competent he looked, in his well-worn khaki tunic with its large pockets and brass buttons and wide Sam Browne belt, the strict knot at his neck splitting his shirt collar exactly in half. That boyish replica of the face I adored.

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I smiled and drew my knees up. “You’re feeling awkward, aren’t you? Let me guess what you’re thinking.” I adjusted my tone, took on his supple clipped accent. “Bloody hell, Ashford. How the devil have you gotten yourself in this mess? A strange woman in your bed at three o’clock in the afternoon! Just how the deuce are you planning to get her out and on her way, without being rude?” His smile spread slow and dazzling across his face, just as it always had. “In fact,” he said, “you’re not remotely close.” “I’m not?” “For one thing, I’d never use such language in your presence.” My mouth twitched. “Oh,” I said. “I beg your pardon.” “And for another thing, it’s gone nearly five o’clock.” I glanced at the window. “I’m so sorry.” “You must stop all this apologizing immediately.” “I know, it’s a bad habit.” I laughed shallowly and turned back to him. “But I have put you in an difficult position, haven’t I? Did you have time to ask about a room for me? Don’t worry if you haven’t,” I added. “I can find something. I feel much better now, with a little rest.” “The landlady has another room available by this evening,” he said. “Some chap going back up the line. You can stay here, of course; I’ll move my own things upstairs.” “Thanks. Thank you. You probably think the worst of me already, allowing myself in here without a chaperone.” He laughed. “You don’t need a chaperone. You’re perfectly capable.” “But the girls you know wouldn’t be caught here, would they?” I gestured around the room, at his pack resting significantly in the corner. “No, but you’re not like the other girls, are you?” “Obviously not. I probably curse like a fishwife, by comparison.” I smiled repentantly. “Aren’t you afraid of my character? Some cheap seductress, maybe?” He tilted his head, still smiling. “Are you?”

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“Of course not. I’m a respectable widow.” My voice nearly choked on the word. “But how would you know that? How could you be sure of me?” “Kate,” he said, “it’s written on your face. The way you hold your head, just so.” The air between us seemed to slow and thicken. I watched him helplessly, his sturdy figure planted before the fire, hands behind his back, the lamplight casting such deep shadows beneath his cheekbones that he might nearly be thirty, might nearly bridge the gap between himself and the man I knew. “You’re so trusting,” I whispered. He shook his head. “Not indiscriminately, in fact.” “Why me, then?” He seemed to take this seriously. “I suppose,” he said, almost to himself, “because it feels almost as though I know you already. That we’ve met before. I’ve never . . . But it’s absurd, of course. I beg your pardon.” “It’s just because of the way I’m talking to you, probably. I started on in like some kind of brazen idiot, assuming things . . .” “Have we met before?” “Wouldn’t you remember? You don’t forget faces, and you’re never drunk.” His eyes widened; he flung his arms across his ribs and paced the short distance to the window with that leonine grace of his. “How would you know that?” he demanded. “I just know things.” “That second sight of yours?” he asked softly, not looking at me. “I thought you said it was a load of rubbish.” “I’d always thought so.” His fingers spread out along the windowsill, curling into the wood. “Julian, trust me. Don’t be afraid of this.” “I’m not afraid.” He turned, meeting my gaze with wide curious eyes. The irises were backlit with emotion, with dawning recognition, the way I’d felt around him all those months ago. “And I do trust you,” he added.

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“Do you really? I mean really trust me? I know that’s a stupid question to ask, when you’ve only just met me, and in the most bizarre circumstances.” I set my chin on top of my knees and studied him. “All I can say, in my defense, is that you can trust me. I’d never hurt you; never, never.” “Who are you?” he breathed. Silence gathered in the little room. The light from the single electric lamp gasped and shuddered and went out, leaving us in a dusky gloom; then it flickered back on again, just as I reached for the candle on the bedside table. “Sorry,” I said. “It keeps doing that. Come sit down.” He hesitated. “You don’t have to sit next to me,” I said. “The chair is just fine.” He walked over and sat down gingerly on the bed, a few feet away. His scent crept toward me, soap and damp wool and smoke, pungent with masculine activity. “Julian, there’s something I know, something I need to tell you.” “What sort of thing?” he asked evenly, guardedly. “Something that’s going to happen. Don’t ask how I know it. It’s the reason I came here, to warn you.” “How on earth . . .” “You’re not allowed to ask, remember?” “How can I not ask? How can I believe you, if I don’t know?” I reached out to take his unresisting hand and hold it between mine. “Well, that’s where the trust comes in.” I rubbed his thumb, wondering at the ridged toughness of it, a laborer’s thumb. “Look at you. I can see the doubt in your eyes. I don’t suppose I can blame you, either; I’m probably not the most credible object you’ve ever encountered.” “I’m not doubting you, Kate. Not your intentions, at least.” I smiled. “That’s a relief, anyway. You doubt my information, then? Or . . . or perhaps you think I might be right, and so you don’t want to hear it.” “I’m not quite sure, to be honest.” His hand began to curl around mine.

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“May I tell you, then? And then you can decide the rest for yourself.” I drew a slow circle on the back of his hand with my fingertip. “Will you let me, please?” He nodded, once, slowly. “Thank you. So here it is: You’ll be going on a night patrol, as soon as you’re back up the line. Does that sound reasonable?” A reproachful upward tilt of his mouth. “One doesn’t need much second sight to guess that. You must know I’ve run dozens of them.” “So I’ve gathered.” I smiled back. “You and your heroics. But this one will be different, Julian. You won’t come back safely to your trenches this time. During that night patrol, something will happen to you, something that will lead to your death.” I saw his face stiffen, in the instant before the lamp went out again, suddenly and silently, leaving us alone in the faded daylight. “And so I’m asking you, please, please, Julian,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady and not quite succeeding, “not to go on that patrol.” “How do you know this?” he asked, quite calm. “I told you not to ask me that.” “How . . .” He bit his lip. I tightened my hand around his. “Can’t you just trust me? Promise me you’ll find someone else to lead the patrol?” His face cleared. “That I can’t do. Won’t do.” “You won’t even consider it?” “Of course not. What, and let some other man die in my place?” He shook his head. “In any case, every time I put my head up, I run the risk of being killed. It’s war.” “But I know,” I pleaded. “This is real, Julian.” “Whether you’re telling the truth isn’t the point,” he said gently, “not that I doubt you. Surely you understand. One doesn’t desert one’s company. Shirk one’s duties, out of fear of death.” “Fear of death? Julian, it’s an absolute certainty!” “All the more reason I should go, if the bullet is meant for me.”

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“In the first place, it’s a shell, not a bullet.” “And what about the man who dies in my place? How do I write that letter home to his mother?” “And what about the letter home to yours?” I asked wildly, feeling desperate now, realizing I’d badly miscalculated. “Please believe me. You will die. You will, Julian. You can’t do that to me.” I slid from the bed, onto my knees before him, supplicating. “Please. Please listen to me. What can I say? What can I do?” He grasped my hands and stood up, tugging at me. “Don’t, Kate. Don’t. Dear angel, what are you saying? You know I can’t do that. If you know me, as you say, then you know I can’t decline a patrol, shift the burden elsewhere. Don’t ask it of me.” I stared at the roughened khaki wool of his tunic, at a bleak brown stain on the right side, just under his belt, round and ominous. I rose and pulled my hands free. “No,” I said dully, “of course not. I don’t know what I was thinking. Just telling you, without the rest of it. Of course it wouldn’t work.” “The rest of it?” There was no reading his face, shadowed and inscrutable now in the cold diffuse light from the window. “Look,” I said, “I know you’re going out with Geoff and Arthur and your colonels tonight. Could you do me one favor, please?” “Anything,” he said softly. “Could you stop by my room when you’re back? Nothing . . . nothing improper, I guess, is the word. Just to talk. I have something else to tell you, and it’s difficult to explain. You may not believe it at all.” He searched me, so thoroughly I began to flush. I balled my hands into fists, curling the fingernails ruthlessly into my skin. I would not embrace him, could not reach out to take him between my palms. He wasn’t my Julian. “Please,” I said, into his silence. “If you knew how far I’ve come, how hard I’ve fought to find you.” “But why?” he pressed. “Why? I’m a stranger to you.”

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“Would it be deeply unfair of me, to promise to tell you later?” We were standing so close, there in the failing light; I could hardly breathe, for fear his scent would be the end of me. “When you’ve come back tonight? Because it’s hard to explain on its own.” His right hand rose, grasping, and then fell back. “Kate,” he said, “I’ll send a message to Warwick and Hamilton, make my excuses. The rain’s stopped. We can have dinner. Is that all right?” “They’ll be suspicious. My reputation will be ruined.” “I’ll tell them I’m unwell. Exhausted. That I’m keeping to my room.” “I don’t have anything suitable to wear,” I said. “That doesn’t matter. You look lovely.” “I might be sick again, at some point.” “I’ll find you a basin. Please, Kate.” He lifted his hand again, more confidently, and brushed my elbow. I could hear the coals now, new lumps catching fire at last, hissing with renewed strength to warm the air around us. I said: “You’re impossible to resist, did you know that?’ He grinned, broad and iridescent. “All right, then, Captain Ashford,” I sighed. “It’s a date.”

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Julian stood waiting for me in a shaft of sunlight at the back of the ballet studio, arms folded, with a peculiar smile on his face. “They’re not supposed to let members of the general public inside,” I complained, to disguise the way my heart skidded at the unexpected sight of him. I’d been thinking about him constantly over the past two days, and still I wasn’t quite prepared for the reality. He stood so tall and broadshouldered and vital, so radiant with good looks. His extravagant eyes glowed at me. “I managed to persuade the receptionist to make an exception,” he said, stepping forward to drop a kiss on my lips. The other dancers streamed past us, glancing back curiously. Enviously. “I’ll just bet.” I sighed. “So how much did you see?” “Just the last ten minutes.” His mouth turned up in that intimate way of his. “Enough to become enchanted with you all over again.” “Oh, please. I’m about the least competent woman in the room. They’ve all been doing it nonstop since about age three; I only picked it up again last year. I’d forgotten pretty much everything.” He made the smallest shake of his head, still smiling. “You had me mesmerized.” My eyes slipped downward, fastening on the trim white shirt collar showing above the V of his sweater, last button ajar. “Um,” I said, “I think I’d better get dressed. Can you wait in the lobby this time, like everyone else?” “I’ll try.” “And no chatting up the receptionist, okay?”

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“I wasn’t chatting up anybody,” he protested. I thought about this while I was pulling on my yoga pants and hoodie in the changing room. “I think I’ve found your fatal flaw,” I said, as we walked to the elevator a few minutes later. “Which one?” “You’re smug. You know exactly what kind of effect you have on women, and you don’t have any problem using it.” “Is that what you think?” “Oh, I’m so right. Come on. You used it on me. You knew I was a sure thing.” “Not for the reason you think. Anyway, it’s hardly a fatal flaw.” He glanced impatiently at his watch. “Let’s just take the stairs. It’s only three floors.” We found the stairwell doors and tripped down to street level. “So what reason, then?” I demanded, annoyed he’d admitted it. “Why did you know I was a sure thing?” He pushed open the door to the building lobby and motioned me through before him. “It’s hard to explain. Let me put it this way: when I saw you, in that conference room, I felt as though I already knew you. And it seemed to me that you felt it, too.” “Did it?” I frowned, trying to remember the details of our meeting. I’d been so addle-brained, so distracted by attraction, it was hard to pin down my emotions. “Well, perhaps I was wrong about that,” he shrugged, following me through the revolving doors onto the bustling pitted sidewalk of Eightysixth Street. “It only felt natural to me, that you would feel the same attraction I did. It was like something falling into place.” “Oh, is that how it works, for guys like you? You just feel this attraction, and the girl follows?” “You’re deliberately misunderstanding me. Where do you want to go, by the way?” We stood on the corner of Eighty-sixth and Lexington, facing eastward toward the park.

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“Well, I guess I should go home and change, right?” We turned left to walk down Lexington. The pleasant weather had returned after a rainy interlude yesterday, and now the sidewalks were cluttered with people and baby strollers and sudden blinding shafts of sunlight between the cotton-ball clouds. “You seem to have this idea,” he said, picking up the thread of our conversation, “that I’m some sort of . . . of playboy, I believe, is the term.” “I didn’t say that.” “You accused me of consorting with models and actresses . . .” “I never accused you! I just thought they were, you know, kind of in your line. As a successful, attractive man, I mean.” “What I’ll never understand about the modern era,” he said, “is this fascination with—what’s the word—celebrities, I suppose. Every age has its fixations, of course, but it’s as though vanity has suddenly been transformed from a sin to a virtue.” “But we’re all vain,” I pointed out. “I mean, we all buy into it, don’t we?” He walked along silently for a block or two, eyes fixed somewhere on the sidewalk, a few feet ahead. “Kate,” he said finally, “I daresay it’s rather a cliché, and in some ways a sort of left-handed compliment, to prattle on about inner beauty. And I don’t mean in any way to diminish your own looks, which frankly take my breath away. But I can’t imagine feeling this way about a mere pretty face. It’s everything else, the . . . the Kateness of you.” I tried to speak, but my throat had closed like a vise. We both stopped, and he pulled me into the little recess next to a bodega fruit display. “You always have some fresh surprise for me, Kate. Some new aspect I never suspected. This dancing of yours.” “Oh, come on. I’m honestly not that good.” He shrugged. “You’re talking about technical skill,” he said, “about which I’m no judge at all. I only saw the way you held yourself, so naturally graceful; or perhaps poised is a better word. You possess a certain innate dignity, darling, which expresses itself in ways that fascinate me.”

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Up until that point, I’d been trying to keep a lid on this infatuation with Julian Laurence. I knew my own weaknesses, my susceptibilities; any romantic illusions had been long ago crushed under the brutally efficient heel of college life. I’d met the first one in the library, as late bloomers do, right after Thanksgiving break: the charming and confident senior of my dreams, handsome, sleepy-eyed. We’d flirted for a week or two before he asked me to the movies with a group of friends—all his, of course—and followed that up with an invitation to watch the Packers game at his house off-campus. Later, I’d realized this was pretty generous wooing, as standards went. I’d sat on a couch in the living room, surrounded by his roommates, eating stale Tostitos and salsa, sipping from a bottle of Bud Light. When halftime came up, he’d stood and walked down the hall, and his voice had floated out a minute later: Hey Kate, come to my room, I want to show you something. I’d heaved upward from the sagging sofa, felt the eyes of his friends shift away, walked down the narrow hallway with its bachelor smells of old beer and old laundry overlaid by the stickiness of a Glade PlugIn. I’d thought, so this is it. Not what you’d dreamed of, maybe, but this is how it’s done in the real world, don’t be a prude, don’t be a coward, get with the program. Once our clothes were off, I’d blurted—embarrassed, really—that I was a virgin, and he’d said oh that’s okay, we don’t need to go all the way, and we hadn’t, technically. But as I’d cycled through the frozen starry night to my dorm an hour later, my hands still stunned and burning, my flesh strangely raw against the pressure of the bike seat, I knew I was no longer innocent. He’d asked me over a few more times—I’d never heard the term booty call, at that point—until Christmas break arrived and he forgot all about me. Sometime that spring, he’d called up again, out of the blue, because some friend of his had claimed that I was bragging all over the dorm about having had sex with him. I’d stammered my innocence, reeling to recall the melancholy Friday evening I’d confided some part of the story to a trusted friend, and hung up the phone and cried. Not because he’d scolded

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me unjustly, or because I still cared about him, but because he’d once touched my body so intimately and yet had never known the smallest thing about me: had never understood that, to me, having sex wasn’t something to brag about. And now I stood here with this man, with Julian Laurence, in the shadow of a grubby storefront, surrounded by fruit crates and flattened cardboard boxes, powerless again, my eyes cast down to the crumbling gum-blotched pavement. I felt his hand slide into mine, firm and certain, turning me, urging me forward. “Tell me something,” he said. “Why ballet?” I shifted my throat. “Oh gosh. I don’t know. I guess I was looking for something else besides running. You know, cross-training. My friends were into yoga and Pilates and whatever. I was about to sign up. And then I was walking past this ABT poster one morning on the subway, this dancer just hanging there in midair, just unbelievably strong and graceful, both at once, and I thought, that’s it. That’s how I want to be.” “It suits you.” “Well, I danced as a child. Until I was thirteen or so, and it started cutting into the rest of my life. The whole teenager thing. Here’s my building.” He waited in the lobby, chatting with Joey, while I raced upstairs and changed into date clothes—silk tank, cardigan, skinny black pants, kitten heels—and loosened my hair from its tidy ballet knot. It swung with an unfamiliar freedom about my shoulders as I came off the elevator; Julian, turning from Joey, seemed to start at the sight, though his voice was casual enough. “You look lovely. All set?” “All set. Where to?” “My car’s parked across from the house; I thought we’d drive.” He stood back politely, allowing me through the revolving door. “You two have a nice time,” Joey called after us. We started the short walk down Park Avenue just as the lowering sun began to wash the blue out of the sky. The sidewalks were shadowed now,

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only the rare streak of light finding its way between the buildings, and the fragile spring air had already begun to cool. I felt Julian’s hand slip around mine and felt I should say something. “A beautiful evening,” I began, but my words were lost in the shriek of a taxi’s tires, as it flung around the center median and swerved to the curb next to us. A man jumped out and started toward us. “Jeez!” I exclaimed, but Julian tugged urgently on my hand, pulling me along the sidewalk. A voice called up from behind. “Ashford! Ashford, by God!” “Come on,” Julian muttered, pulling me again. “Ashford!” I heard footsteps running up behind us. “Ashford! Stop!” “Does he mean you?” I hissed, and then my right heel caught on the subway grate, sending me swooping downward. Julian’s arm snagged under me just in time. The man caught up. “Ashford! I never thought . . .” “Sorry, man,” Julian said, in a flawless American accent. “I think you have the wrong guy.” My mouth dropped open. The man was in his mid-thirties, round-faced, dark hair. He’d sounded British, though it was hard to tell; he was out of breath from running up the sidewalk after us. “I’m sorry, mate.” His eyes swerved back and forth between the two of us, and then settled back on Julian. “You look just like a . . . a chap I used to know. Back in Blighty. I could have sworn . . .” “Sorry, buddy,” Julian said again. “Wrong guy.” “You’re sure, mate?” the man said. He peered one last time. “My name’s Paulson. Andrew Paulson.” He sounded as if he were pleading. Julian shrugged and shook his head, looking regretful. “Doesn’t ring a bell. I must have one of those faces. Sorry.” “Your pardon, then. Good . . . good evening.” The man walked away, so downcast I wanted to run after him, but Julian, who hadn’t let go of my hand, turned back and practically jerked me along with him.

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“Um, wait a second,” I said. “That was really weird. Are you going to tell me what was going on?” “Obviously it was just some idiot, thinking I was his long-lost friend.” “But why did you use that accent?” “He was British. I thought if I sounded American, he would give up sooner.” “Oh,” I said. We were approaching the curb; I looked automatically down the street to check for traffic. We waited for the cars to pass by, and then dashed across against the light. “Kind of funny, though,” I said, as we continued rapidly down the sidewalk. “I mean, he was British. Just like you.” “New York is full of us,” he said. We didn’t say anything more. The parking attendant at the garage retrieved the car, and Julian set me inside absently, almost as though he’d forgotten who I was and why I was there. As soon as we pulled out, he reached over with one hand to pull an iPod out of the center console. He plugged it deftly into the port on the dashboard and clicked through the menus until he reached some music. Mozart, from the sound of it. “So,” I said, clearing my throat. “Where to?” He rubbed his forehead. “I’ve spoilt the evening, haven’t I?” “Not totally, but it’s only eight o’clock. You still have plenty of time to rip it to shreds.” He tapped his finger on the steering wheel and turned right on Park. “Perhaps I should just take you home.” He sounded saddened, not angry; it gave me hope. “Whoa. Wait. Stop. What happened, Julian? It’s like . . . it’s like Christmas all over again! And I swear I won’t let you get away with it this time. What’s wrong ?” “Christ, Kate,” he burst out, pounding the steering wheel, “you don’t know anything about me. I shouldn’t have . . . I’m the most selfish bastard alive, aren’t I?”

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“Stop it! What does that even mean? Julian. Julian, will you listen to me a moment? Pull the car over.” “No. I’m taking you home.” “You’re not. I won’t leave.” “I don’t want you to stay.” “Yes, you do. You need me to stay. Julian,” I said, more softly, “you promised. The other night, you promised me you cared. So prove it. Don’t let me down, here.” That penetrated. He drove silently down Park, toward midtown. I remained quiet too, not wanting to disturb the truce too soon, letting him work things through in his mind, talk himself off the ledge. Mozart’s clarinets wandered nimbly in the stillness between us. Outside the tinted windows of the Maserati, as we waited for the light to change, a fortysomething couple propelled a sport-wheeled twin stroller across Fiftyninth Street: arguing, gesticulating. I turned to Julian. “Forget the date. You’re taking me back to your place, and we’re going to talk.”

Julian drove the car back to the garage and took my hand to lead me to his front door. The windows were all darkened, except for a glimmer from some distant corner of the first floor. He allowed me in first, closing the door behind us, and punched a few numbers into the alarm keypad. I turned to face him. “I’m hungry,” I announced. He laughed, unexpectedly. “I expect you are. All right. The kitchen’s downstairs.” “Can you make an omelet?” I asked, making my way down the staircase. “Not well.” The kitchen was at the back, modern and well-fitted, with marble countertops that glowed in the warm incandescence of a dozen recessed lights. It was about eight times as large as the kitchen area in my shared

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apartment. “Do you even use this thing?” I asked, staring at the spotless stainless-steel gleam of the Wolf range. “Yes, as a matter of fact,” he said, injured. “Porridge and whatnot. I have a housekeeper who comes by a few times a week, while I’m at work. She makes things up for me.” “Wow. Must be nice.” I opened up the Sub-Zero and peered inside. A few casserole dishes were stacked in the middle, along with milk and orange juice and ketchup. “Oh good,” I said, “she’s left us some eggs.” I hunted around and found some fancy artisan cheese and a tomato, closed the door with the heel of my shoe and began rummaging around the cabinets for a frying pan and a mixing bowl. “You should tell your housekeeper not to leave the tomatoes in the fridge,” I said. “It takes away the flavor.” “Look, Kate,” he began, “I’m sorry for . . .” “Nope. Not now. You can’t have a reasonable discussion on an empty stomach. Find me some butter, will you? I, sir, am going to make you the best darned omelet you’ve ever tasted.” “Yes, ma’am,” he said humbly. He brought me the butter while I whipped up the eggs into froth and added a splash of water. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he observed, watching me pour the mixture into the pan. “I don’t cook much, but I do make a mean omelet. My father taught me. Mom would sleep in on Saturday mornings, and we’d make her breakfast.” I looked up and smiled at him. “Good times. Where are your plates?” He brought over plates and forks, and when the omelets were done I slid them into place. “Here,” I said. “Eat it and weep.” We sat down at the counter and began eating companionably, like an old married couple, forks clinking on china. “There,” I said, after a few bites, “is that better?” “Much. This is a jolly good omelet.” “Well, if you ask nicely, maybe I’ll make them again sometime.” I reached for my glass of water, and his hand caught my arm.

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“Is that from the other night?” he asked. I turned my elbow. Only a single Band-Aid remained, over the worst of the scrape. “It’s healing,” I shrugged. His finger ran over the top. “I’m sorry about that. Any other wounds?” “Bruise or two. I might even show you, if you get lucky tonight.” He let out a single crack of laughter. “Lucky? At this point, I’d require divine bloody intervention, wouldn’t I?” We finished eating and put the dishes in the dishwasher. “Now,” I said, turning around to face him, “take me back upstairs and we’ll talk.” He stood closer than I thought. I felt the warmth of his body, the tickle of his breath on my nose. He studied me, only inches away, his eyes full of some concentrated emotion. His hands reached up and brushed against my ears, not quite cupping my face, the thumbs caressing the very outermost points of my cheekbones. “What a marvelous woman you are,” he said. “It’s just an omelet,” I said shakily. Before I could so much as gasp, he bent and picked me up, bearing me upstairs to the library, where he set me on the sofa and knelt on the rug before me. “Look,” I said, “I don’t know what happened back there, and I don’t care. I don’t care if we never go out on a so-called date. That’s not important. What’s important is that you don’t shut me out like that again. Ever. For as long as we’re together. If you’re done with me, tell me. I won’t be a pain about it. But don’t go cold on me.” “I’m British. It’s what we do.” I struggled upright. “Well, we’re in America right now. And if you’re on my turf, you play by my rules. Oh, Julian,” I said, more softly, lifting my hand to smooth his cheek, “you know, you don’t need to explain. You lived thirty-three years before you met me, and I’m sure there was plenty of stuff in there you don’t want to talk about. That’s okay. But don’t break up with me because of that. Break up with me because you don’t care anymore. That I can take.”

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“Kate. Kate. You don’t know what you’re saying. Not care about you? Have you been listening to me at all?” “Men have been known to change their minds.” He lifted both hands and ran them through his hair. “If only you knew, Kate. If only I could make you understand. My God!” He caught his breath. “Well, try, for God’s sake. It’s important.” He put his hand on my arm. “Kate, listen. This thing in my past. All right, I won’t deny it’s there. But it’s bigger than you could imagine. It’s not just baggage, or whatever the modern term is. It’s essential to who I am.” “And you can’t tell me.” “Not for the reason you’re thinking. Not because I don’t want you to know, to share fully in who I am. I want that more than anything.” “Then why not?” He leaned back on his heels and looked up at the ceiling. “Because it’s too great a risk. To you particularly.” “A risk. A risk. Well, gosh, Julian. Now you’ve really got me curious. Did you commit murder or something?” He flinched. “Whoa,” I breathed. “No, no,” he said hastily. “Not murder, for heaven’s sake.” He ran another agitated hand through his hair. “Look, you promised not to press me on it. Can you just give me time, please? Time to sort things out? It’s just so damned complex, and I don’t know what the right thing is anymore. Probably there is no right thing.” He looked so anxious, so deeply perplexed. I felt a surge of emotion for him, ferocious enough to stop the breath in my lungs. “Why?” I whispered. “Why what?” “Why me? You could have anyone. You hardly know me at all.” He smiled then, a tiny wistful smile, tender and intimate. His right thumb reached and stroked along my eyebrow, down the side of my face, around my jaw, feathering my lips. “Kate. I know you far better than you

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realize. And I never want you to ask that question again. Never again to wonder what I feel for you.” He paused briefly, thoughtfully. “Would it help if I said it aloud?” I found myself nodding. “You certainly ought to hear it, putting up with all my mad behavior as generously as you have.” A deprecating shake of his head, and then he went on in a low voice. “Sweetheart, I love you. Of course I do. I love every priceless inch of you. I love you idolatrously, for a thousand reasons, and I shall never stop. Hush,” he said, laying his finger on my lips again, “you don’t need to say anything. I’m a patient man. Just be easy. Know that it’s there, that you needn’t doubt me on this, at least.” He bowed his head to settle a silken kiss into the hollow of my throat, holding it there for what seemed an eternity before his mouth began to move up my collarbone, melting it in his wake. I tilted my head back, feeling the prickle of his hair against my cheek. “You . . . are the most baffling man,” I managed. “How so?” “You just . . . you fell in love with me . . . just like that ?” My concentration kept lapsing; I struggled to hold onto my thoughts, which I knew were important. I felt his laugh against the skin of my neck. “Well, look at you, darling. You’re love-at-first-sight material.” “Using my own words against me.” “You don’t think it’s possible?” “I just can’t believe it. That you would feel that way already. That you would admit it.” “Well, as they say,” he said, nibbling at my earlobe, and then slipping down to kiss the vale behind it, “faint heart never won fair lady.” I lifted my hand to the back of his head. “I’m going . . . to find out.” “Yes, I expect you shall. What fragrant skin you have, darling; how convenient that the woman one loves should turn out to be so perfectly . . .” He paused to kiss the curve of my jaw.

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“Perfectly what?” “Delectable.” I couldn’t take any more. I wrapped my arms about his neck; my face reached toward him, begging for his kiss. I heard him chuckle, deep in his throat, and then at last his lips met mine, hungry and reckless, and I realized he was as desperate as I was. He knelt in front of me, kissing me madly, his warm spread fingers clasping my face, his scent and his taste flooding every pore of me, until all rational thought detached from my skull. My fingers slipped down, almost by themselves, and began to work the buttons on his shirt, trying to discover the precious skin underneath. And then he drew away. He put up his hand and trapped my fingers and twisted them around his own. His chest was heaving hard; I could feel it beneath my hand. “Kate,” he said, “wait. I don’t think . . .” I looked down. “I’m sorry,” I found myself saying, “I just . . . I don’t know.” “Let’s not be too hasty, shall we?” “Hasty ? You’re talking to me about hasty ?” “Kate, don’t be angry.” “Angry? Julian, I’m so full of crazy feelings right now, angry just doesn’t have room. Do you want me to stay, or not?” “My God, Kate. There’s nothing I want more,” he said, his voice catching, his fingers biting into mine. “Nothing else I can think about. But not yet. Not yet, please.” I stared at him. “Okay. Whatever.” “What’s wrong?” “Well, guys don’t usually put the brakes on,” I said. “Especially after the ‘I love you’ gambit.” An austere expression settled on his face. “Exactly what do you mean by that?” “Oh, please, Julian. Let’s not have the sex talk right now. I’m not up to it, after everything else.”

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“The sex talk?” I waved my hand, evading his look. “Going through our quote unquote histories, dredging up all the ghosts. Can we just have the executive summary and move on?” He went still for a moment, taut as a crossbow, bright color staining his cheekbones. “Come here,” he said at last, and sat down next to me on the sofa and gathered me into his lap. “If we do this,” he said, the softness of his voice belying the lithe vibrating tension in his body, “when we do this, it will have nothing to do with what’s gone before, for either of us. Nothing. Because I frankly can’t bear to think about someone else being with you, and not loving you the way I do. So let’s just leave it a blank slate.” He kissed my temple. “God knows I don’t want you to leave tonight, Kate. I want you to fall asleep next to me, every night of my life. But I’m going to walk you home now, all the same, because I think we’d better not cross that particular Rubicon just yet. Don’t you?” “I . . . I don’t know. Not just yet. What does that mean? Do you . . .”—I swallowed—“do you need me to say it, too?” “No, darling.” His hand brushed along my arm. “Don’t worry about that.” “Then I don’t understand. I just . . . aren’t I . . . don’t you want me?” “Oh, for God’s sake, Kate,” he groaned. “Not want you? Bloody Christ.” “Look, you’re confusing the hell out of me! If you were in love with me from the beginning, why did you walk away? And if you do love me, why won’t you just haul me upstairs and show me?” “I left,” he said rigidly, “because I thought it was best for you. I didn’t realize . . . I thought I was only hurting myself, at that point. But I shan’t forsake you again, Kate, I swear it. And as for hauling you upstairs . . . God knows . . .” He shook his head. “It’s too important to me, Kate. I won’t rush you into something you’re not ready for.” “Not ready for? Of course I’m ready ! Trust me, I’ve never been so ready!” He laughed hollowly. “No, darling. You’re not.” “And you think you know what’s best for me?” “In this case, I do.”

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I opened my mouth to cite de Beauvoir, chapter and verse, but something stopped me, some unexpected flare of self-insight, or else some realization of what, exactly, he was offering me. So I turned away from him instead, eased myself back against his broad body, squinted up at the ceiling. “You know,” I said, after a moment, “no one’s ever tried to talk me out of sex before.” “Ah. All those rotters, isn’t it?” He was so warm, so gentle; the tension had left him entirely. I felt the steady rise and fall of his chest behind me, the cradling strength of his arms. “Well, not that many, actually. I wised up before too much damage was done.” I paused, letting the unspoken details lie massive and still between us, before going on softly: “But you know, I never realized how . . . just . . . lame they were, until now.” His arms tightened around me. I felt his lips press against my hair, reassuring, but his voice was intense. “I could murder them.” “Please don’t,” I said, half-serious, thinking of the efficient way he had landed punches on my attacker in the park. I sat up. “You promised me you’d play the piano for me sometime.” “Now?” “Why not?” I twisted in his arms to touch his chin with my finger. “I don’t want to leave yet, and you’ve ruled out sex.” “Kate. And you can’t think of anything else to do?” “Please?” His eyes rolled upward. “You’re discovering your power over me, aren’t you? Very well.” He stood up, bringing me with him. “Go upstairs. The piano’s in the room fronting the street. I’m going to fetch a bit of wine.” “Wine?” “Stage fright.” He stroked my cheek with the back of his hand and smiled at me. “Up with you. I’ll be right there.” I skipped up the stairs, turning right at the landing, and found my way down the darkened hall to the room at the front. I was half-expecting it might be his bedroom, but in fact it was more like a study, or perhaps a

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music room, with a low comfortable English-armed sofa at one end and a grand piano filling the space near the windows. I turned on a lamp and went to the wide window overlooking the street below. What time was it? Not too late, ten-thirty maybe, but it seemed later: the streetlamps cast lurid yellow-orange pools of light on the deserted sidewalk, and the rapid pulse of traffic had settled into the occasional passing taxi and black sedan. I felt a surge of gratitude, to be where I stood, in this tranquil room, with Julian’s presence a comforting certainty somewhere nearby. “Found your way, all right?” came his voice behind me, as though I’d summoned him with my thoughts. “Mmm, yes,” I said, without turning. “I love the room. Very homelike.” I heard his footsteps behind me, creaking the floorboards, and then a glass of red wine appeared in front of me. The warmth of his body hovered over my skin. “Thank you,” I said, taking it, and held the glass in my hand for a second or two before lifting it to my lips. “Wow. Delicious.” “What would you like me to play?” “I don’t know. I loved that Chopin you were playing, when I came here at Christmas.” He chuckled, close to my ear. “You seem to be under the misapprehension that I’m some sort of expert musician.” “Aren’t you? You’re good at everything else.” “I’m passable, but nothing like an expert.” I turned to find his face inches from mine, looking down at me with amusement. “Don’t punk out on me, Laurence,” I warned. He smiled and took a drink of wine. “Right-ho. You’ve asked for it. Have a seat,” he said, nodding at the sofa. I went over obediently and sank into the cushion, curling my legs beneath me, wineglass in hand. Julian stepped to the piano, placing his glass on the edge before pushing off his shoes with his toes and settling his stocking feet on the pedals. “Chopin?” he confirmed, lifting his eyebrow at me. “Yes, please. A nocturne, maybe. I like those.” He nodded. The piano stood at an angle to me, so I could just see the

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keyboard and the side of his face glowing in the dusky light from the nearby lamp. “I expect you’ll know this one,” he said. “Number two in E flat.” He closed his eyes briefly, recalling the music perhaps, and a short silence filled the half-lit room, so dense I thought I could hear the hasty thump-thump, thump-thump of my own heart, anticipating him. Then he looked at his hands, and the first few notes rose upward, poising languorously in midair, warm and flawless, perfectly familiar. How often had I heard this music? It felt like an old friend, someone we’d both known all our lives, without realizing the shared connection. It hardly seemed like music at all: it stirred the intimate space between us, more like a question, an inquiry. As though he were reaching out tenderly to ask me something, to express the inexpressible. And I wanted keenly to answer him, to tell him yes! yes! but instead I only studied him, enraptured; watched the lines of his face tighten in concentration as he sank into the notes, into the delicate cascades and passionate surges, his eyes following his hands on the keyboard. He loved this piece. I could see that much. At certain points, points of what might be called suppressed fervor, his eyelids slipped down, sealing in an intensity of feeling. He’s sensuous, slid the thought into my head. A deeply sensuous man. The way he kissed me, the way he touched me, the way his fingers traveled knowingly along the piano keys, coaxing out this living music: it was all the same. His voice echoed in my ear: If we do this. When we do this. He brought the piece to rest on its low final chord, ebbing into the ether. A moment passed of absolute stillness, and then he turned to look at me with a faintly apologetic expression, eyebrow raised in question. I spoke with effort. “That was amazing. Thank you so much. I . . . wow. I don’t know what to say. Play another.” He crossed his eyes comically. “Clearly no judge of music, for which blessing I’m extremely grateful.” He paused, and then started something else, restive and vibrant.

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“What’s that?” I asked, watching his face. “Beethoven,” he answered. “Appassionata. First movement.” “Hmm.” I listened for a moment, until the melodic line surfaced briefly. “Oh, yeah. I’ve heard this one,” I murmured. “I should hope so.” “Where did you learn to play?” “Endless lessons as a child. My mother used to have me play for her in the evenings, when I was home from school.” A little pause. “And I practice a good deal, still. At night, when I can’t sleep.” He fell silent, working his way through a momentary elaboration, and then asked, “Where did you learn your Chopin?” “Hmm?” The music wound around us; I couldn’t focus on his words. “Oh, my father used to play it on the stereo. He said it was good for the soul.” He smiled, glancing over at me before returning his eyes to the keyboard. “I think I like your father.” “Just an ordinary dad, really.” “Not at all. He raised you, didn’t he? I imagine,” he continued, after a moment, “you grew up feeling as though you didn’t quite fit in with your surroundings. That you weren’t quite like everyone else you knew. Am I right?” I shifted on the sofa. “Everybody does at some point. It’s part of the human conceit, isn’t it, to think we’re special somehow.” “And now?” “I guess I have trouble relating sometimes,” I said. “Not that I think I’m better than anyone else; usually the opposite. Not quite cool enough for Manhattan.” He shook his head. “A rose among dandelions.” “Hardly.” He didn’t reply, only smiled and went on with the sonata, concentrating fiercely on its intricate pounding final minute, closing his eyes as it drifted into nothing.

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“Oh, now you’re just showing off,” I told him, and he looked up at me and winked. Without asking, he took a drink of wine and started something else, playing as though I weren’t there at all. I must have begun to doze off at some point, because I opened my eyes to see Julian on his heels before me, easing the half-empty wineglass from my fingers. “You’re falling asleep,” he said softly, reaching out to tuck my hair behind my ear. “Let’s get you home.”

We walked back slowly, hand in hand, to my apartment building,

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not talking at all. So much had been said today, and our brains were too busy processing it all to think of anything new. It was only when the dark green awning above the lobby entrance loomed ahead that I spoke up. “So. Should I wait out front in the morning?” “Actually, I’ve got to fly up to Boston first thing,” he said, a little wryly. “Oh, no. Not Boston again. I guess this is really good-bye, then.” I stopped in the shadows, just outside the glow of light from the lobby, and turned to face him. He leaned forward, cupping his hand around the curve of my skull, and kissed me, hard. “This is not good-bye,” he said fiercely. “Can you blame me? You gave me a pretty good scare tonight.” “I’m sorry,” he said, eyes closed, leaning his forehead against mine. The words brushed against my mouth. “Forgive me, darling. I’ll make it up to you.” “Not another private jet, I hope. Flowers are okay this time.” “No. I’ve got something else for you, at the moment.” He reached into his jacket pocket and handed me a small folded envelope. “What’s this?” I asked, turning it over. “Now, don’t freak out, as you Americans say,” he warned. “I don’t mean to frighten you off with it.” I looked up at him from under my lashes, and then popped open the envelope to find a set of keys and a piece of paper.

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“To the house,” he said. “Whoa.” “Just for emergencies,” he said quickly. “If I’m at the office, or out of town, and you need something.” “Oh.” “This one’s the knob; the other two are the deadbolts. The alarm code’s written on the paper. You needn’t ask me first, of course. Borrow a book, if you like.” “Oh,” I said again. I risked a glance at his face. His eyes shone down at me, wide and vulnerable. “Julian, thank you. I’m very touched. I mean, you can trust me. I won’t, like, invade your privacy, I promise.” As I watched, his expression opened into a smile, and he began to chuckle. He lifted one hand to brush against my cheekbone. “Darling girl, don’t you understand? That’s exactly what I want you to do.”

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10.

Clouds billowed in overnight, coating the sky like a blanket and turning the balm of the previous day into a broad muggy warning of the summer to come. I trudged through the heavy air from the subway stop on Broadway to the Sterling Bates building on Wall Street, scrolling through my BlackBerry for Julian’s latest e-mail. It had been sent while I was swaying down the subway tracks, pressed against the sweaty armpit of some massive guy with a Hitler-style mustache and a cheap suit. Landing shortly. Boston’s in full bloom. Taking you with me next time.

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I typed back. Sounds pretty scandalous. Separate rooms, I hope. I pushed through the revolving doors and swiped my security pass to activate the lobby turnstile. It stuck, nearly breaking my ribs. I swiped again impatiently. Still stuck. I sighed and turned to the security guard. “Sorry,” I said, “I must have demagnetized my pass somehow.” He took the card from me and looked at it. “Just a moment,” he said, and reached for the phone. I stood there, tapping my foot. Julian would be flying back this evening, and we had tentative plans—contingent on my finishing up work on time—to grab a bite somewhere. Or else order in Chinese. Either way, I wanted to clear my desk quickly. “Yeah. Katherine Wilson,” the security guard was repeating into the telephone. He listened for a moment, nodding, and then hung up the

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phone. “Wait here,” he said impassively. “Someone will come down to bring you up.” “Can’t you just swipe me through?” I pleaded. He shrugged. “That’s what they said.” I sighed and switched my laptop onto my other shoulder. Minutes passed, as I stood there awkwardly next to the security desk, checking my watch. My BlackBerry buzzed. Perhaps with a connecting door?

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We are not able to fix loose line. Please advice.

I smiled at the screen. Honestly, all you men can think about is sex. Send. “Kate?” I looked up at Paul Banner. “Oh my gosh,” I said, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry you had to come down. You should have sent one of the interns.” He cleared his throat. “Come along with me, Kate.” Not Katie. I felt a twinge, a warning light flashing on in my brain. He swiped me through the turnstile with a visitor pass, and I walked with him to the elevator bank. He didn’t say anything, just pressed the up arrow and waited next to me. The doors opened, and we went in with about three or four other people, that bulky elevator silence crowding us awkwardly. He reached out and pressed number 18. Capital Markets was on 23. I stood there with my palms growing moist and my heart beating thump thump thump against the wall of my chest. I felt a strain behind my eyes and blinked hard. Do not show weakness. On Wall Street, when they fired you, even if it was just a layoff and not your fault, someone escorted you up to a room in Human Resources. There, the terms of your severance were announced to you in an arid voice, and you were required to sign a paper renouncing any legal claims on the firm, in exchange for your financial package, which usually

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amounted to a week of salary for every year you’d worked there, plus 50 percent of the cash portion of last year’s bonus, all paid in a lump sum by direct deposit. You then handed in any electronic devices owned by the firm, and a security officer escorted you out of the building. You were not allowed to stop at your desk. You were not allowed to say good-bye to your colleagues. Talk about the walk of shame. I wasn’t expecting Banner to stay in the room. I’d heard operating managers usually disappeared, leaving the unpleasant bloodletting for the HR representative to oversee. But when we arrived, Banner came right in behind me and motioned me to a seat at a long narrow table, at which Alicia Boxer, along with one or two managing directors, filled a side. A woman in a cherry-red suit presided at the head. She rustled her throat. “I assume you know why you’ve been called in today,” she said. “Well,” I said, “I gather I’m being let go. Isn’t that right?” She looked at me sharply. “You are being dismissed for cause, Ms. Wilson. The firm has, over the weekend, been presented with incontrovertible proof that you have been engaged in an improper, and possibl